


Baker Street: Part IX

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [22]
Category: CHiPs (TV), Married With Children, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Army, Art, Assassination, Berkshire, College, Costumes, Cumberland, Deception, Disguise, Divorce, England (Country), F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Gay Sex, Illnesses, Infidelity, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, Kent - Freeform, London, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mathematics, Middlesex, Minor Character Death, Money, Multi, Murder, Orgy, Oxfordshire, Poisoning, Police, Politics, Recovery, Religion, School, Servants, Sports, Theft, Trains, Victorian, Women's Suffrage, baker street irregulars - Freeform, cartoons, dorset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1897-1898. Sherlock slowly recovers from his disgraced ex-brother Torver's vicious attack, although he has 'help' courtesy of an Arthurian knight. He also has a rare case with one of the Baker Street Irregulars involving theft and mathematics. There is a gruesome murder by someone who thinks they are bound to get away with it (they are wrong), a handyman who is rather too handy, some cartoon capers, and a stolen painting that is not stolen.  Then it is onto monks, monkeying around, shootings and sovereigns, before karma once again shows that she has a warped sense of humour.
Relationships: Lucifer/OMC, Mrs. Hudson/OMC, Mycroft Holmes/OFC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



** 1897 **

**Interlude: Coming Right**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John and Lucifer Garrick worry over Sherlock's behaviour_

 **Case 233: The Adventure Of Yoxley Old Place**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A seemingly straightforward case, and John is not at all jealous_

 **Case 234: The Adventure Of The Missing Three-Quarter**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A painting is stolen – and then reappears!_

 **Case 235: The Adventure Of 'Mrs. Battleship' ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_One of a cartoonist's targets is not amused at being made fun of_

 **Case 236: Murder In The Meadows**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A gruesome case with more than one death in the Thames’s leafy meadows_

 **Interlude: A Modern Lieutenant-General**  
by Lieutenant Charles Holmes  
_Lieutenant-General Carlyon Holmes's son does not want to think about…... Things_

 **Case 237: The Adventure Of The Irregular Cartwright ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock helps out one of his Irregulars with a maths problem_

 **Case 238: The Adventure Of The Extra Stamp**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sergeant Baldur has problems – and he has not asked for help_

 **Case 239: Newick Smith, Gardener And Handyman ☼**  
by Sergeant Chatton Smith  
_Sergeant Smith's cousin has been perhaps a little too obliging_

 **Case 240: The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Attempted murder in the monastery, then death in the big house – but why?_

 **Case 241: The Adventure Of The Winterborne Windfall ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A doomed man asks for Sherlock's help over some stolen gold_

 **Case 242: The Adventure Of The Fiery Blaze**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock's unpleasant brother Mycroft has family problems - and is shot at!_

 **Interlude: The Morning After**  
by Master Tantalus Holmes  
_A young man of dubious descent finds his teenage years difficult_

 **Case 243: The Adventure Of The Locked Chapel**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_An ex-president is slain by an Act of God – or is he?_

 **Interlude: The Bet**  
by Mrs. Melody Wing  
_A lady does not eavesdrop, but she may ‘just chance to overhear’_

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	2. Interlude: Coming Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherlock is not back to himself after the attack, making his beloved John worry – and he is not the only one.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The warning signs had been there. But I had not seen them. 

If I was being honest with myself, I had not wanted to see them.

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Ever since that memorable time that I had first taken Sherlock and we had screamed our union amid a fierce Essex storm outside the light-house on Futility Island, I had hoped that things were getting back to normal. I expected our sexual lives to resume much as before, but my lover now seemed intent on fully exploring this new dimension in our relationship and I was only too willing to oblige. Indeed it was some time before something rather curious dawned on me – he had not taken me ever since the attack.

My beloved was I felt still too close to his recent terrible experience for me to confront him over this, but I still felt uneasy. Of course I loved this reversal in our roles – he was far more flexible than I could ever have hoped to be and that time he had had me walk around the island with him impaled on me – wow! And yet.... and yet something was definitely not right.

His cousin Mr. Garrick came to the island to arrange the transfer of all our things back to Baker Street, rather unluckily just after another coupling outside the great light that I am sure he must have witnessed from Tom's boat (he had been red-faced throughout his visit and the fisherman's chortling as he had departed had been the sort of clue that not even I could have missed). I managed to get our visitor alone for a moment and he tackled me on the matter at once.

“Apart from the limp that he seems to have acquired since my last visit”, he said coolly, making me blush (manfully), “what has happened? He is not right.”

“He is changed in some way since the attack”, I said. “He is only happy when, uh, I am in charge now.”

He thought for a moment.

“I fear that it may be confidence”, he said. “We shall know for sure if he resumes his work when you get back to London. Benji and I.... he could not believe that I would ever let him be, uh, 'in charge' as you put it but when he looks at me like... you know......”

This was a somewhat difficult conversation, as in the Atlantic Ocean was somewhat damp. We were both very firmly not looking at each other and I severely doubted that the grey wastes of the North Sea were _that_ fascinating.

“Let us see what happens”, he said after some thought. “I have an idea as to how we may remedy things, but he may 'come right' by himself.”

Unfortunately Sherlock did not 'come right'. At all.

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	3. Case 233: The Adventure Of Yoxley Old Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. There are problems at 221B Baker Street, and all is not what it seems in a rowing-themed case as Sherlock uncovers a cunning deception – aimed at him personally!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Our journey back to London a day after all our things had been a quiet one, and I could feel my beloved tensing as we neared the city. Christmas was as I have observed before a quieter time for the criminal fraternity and I was not surprised when my friend opted to retain the services of the secretary that his cousin had provided for his absence (even if the shameless young hussy did simper at a blue-eyed someone old enough to be her father, damn her!). She continued to sort out any private letters from certain friends of ours that she had a list of then proceeded to answer all the others with the standard 'Mr. Holmes is currently engaged on a very important governmental matter and will not be carrying out his regular duties for the foreseeable future' letter. We had a subdued Christmas and as the Queen's Diamond Jubilee year dawned my fears only began to worsen.

Sherlock evinced no interest in either resuming control of our sexual encounters or in anything much regarding his casework. He solved but one fairly unimportant matter which Miss St. Leger had brought to his attention (that formidable lady told me she had not wanted to bother him at this time but regrettably the prime minister himself, one of whose relatives had been involved in the matter, had insisted), and that was it. My friend did mark my forty-fifth birthday that January by presenting me with a beautiful tie-pin that I had seen in Mr. Abrahams's jewellery shop and had liked but had decided was beyond my price range. I was sure that I had not mentioned it to him but somehow he had found out and had bought it for me. That he would think of me in his own dark times gave me both pleasure and pain, as I felt that I was unworthy of so great a man.

February arrived, and still Sherlock showed no sign of resuming either his work or command in our couplings. Now that all his scars save a small one on his thigh had healed I had hoped that might be a sign of things changing, but no. His cousin Mr. Garrick (looking even more wrecked than the last time, I noted) called round but missed him as my love was enduring a visit to his mother, so I told him of my concerns. He said nothing but I knew that he was almost as anxious as I myself was. 

I found myself beginning to scan the 'Times' for anything that might catch my friend's interest and 're-ignite' his passion for his work. I could not imagine him drifting through life like this and remaining happy about it, even though he seemed calm enough at the moment.

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Now that I came to think about it, the one person that we had _not_ seen around Baker Street of late was our old friend Inspector LeStrade despite the numerous baking days that had elapsed during that time. I knew that in his elevated post he had to do far more paperwork and fewer actual cases than he liked, but I still found it curious that he had not visited. Gregson too had been notable by his absence, although after a rearrangement of things his set of stations was now further away so that was perhaps more explicable. Although frankly I would have thought that both men would have had to have been reassigned to Edinburgh to stop them turning up on baking days!

_(I only later found out that Mrs. Malone, having been apprised of the situation, was very generously putting aside slices of cake for both inspectors which Constable Levi Jones, our local copper, was taking round to them both. I should have known!)_

We had an unexpected visitor just before St. Valentine's Day. I was surprised; Mrs. Malone knew to turn away all but a few select persons, and the pistol had recently made an appearance for one slow learner who had also turned out to be an incredibly fast runner for a gentleman in his fifties. This boy was about fourteen years of age and (rather uncharitably) the word that sprang to my mind most readily was 'runt'. He was well-presented enough but looked as if a strong breeze would likely blow him all the way to Paddington; he was almost as tall as Sherlock but there was nothing to him.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, sirs”, he said formally. “I am Master Galahad LeStrade; your friend Inspector LeStrade is my grandfather.”

I remembered from the name that this must be the son of our friend's eldest son Gareth, whom we had met that time in Ilfracombe (The Adventure Of Drake's Drum) shortly before he had married Miss Mercy Waring the assertive fishmonger's daughter. I had had some fears for Gareth LeStrade when he had been in London as I had felt him to have been the sort who life might well pick on all too easily, but fortunately his choice of spouse had been a good one and she had recently taken over her father's business. We had met her and her husband again when he had been visiting his father into whose image he had very much grown, except that he still had his hair. Also the lack of at least one other key ability; he had arrived on a non-baking day!

“You are most welcome”, Sherlock said, shaking his head at me for some reason (I did not know whether to be pleased or sorry that _that_ was still working!). “Did the inspector not feel able to come himself?”

The boy flushed bright red.

“Grandfather suffered an injury last month”, he said, seemingly fascinated by the floor. “He.... he had a fall.”

I wondered at the boy's reaction. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“I trust that your _grandmother_ is also well?” he asked innocently.

The boy glared at him, and I suddenly knew the reason for both his embarrassment and The Great Cake-Detector (Mark One)'s 'fall'. I bit back a smile.

“Let us proceed to the matter at hand”, Sherlock said earning himself a grateful look from our visitor. “I assume that the inspector needs our help for some matter?”

The boy's reply came as a surprise.

“Actually”, he said, “it is me who needs help. I fear that someone who I have never met is going to be attacked, and possibly even killed.”

We both stared at him.

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Mrs. Malone brought us some drinks and cakes, and Sherlock whispered something to her before she left. Once she had gone he turned back to the boy.

“Pray tell us about your case”, he said.

“I should start by saying that I am probably a bit of a disappointment to my grandfather”, the boy said ruefully, “in that I do not want to be a policeman when I grow up. My father, his eldest son who I know you have met, works with my mother to run their fisheries business back in Devonshire; he was lucky to have met her although he knows that full well. I myself would quite like to become a doctor even though I know that that will be difficult.”

“Although I have no interest in the law I do find newspapers fascinating; not just for the stories in them but the ways in which they are covered. The same story can be almost unrecognisable between different reports. Two weeks ago and just before I came to London to spend some time with my grandfather, I read a story in our local newspaper about a Woolacombe man who had been attacked for no apparent reason and had left badly injured. His name was Mr. James Willoughby-Smith.”

The name meant nothing to me but I assumed that there had to be more. 

“It caught my attention because of the name”, the boy explained. “There is a Willoughby at my local school; a bit of a mother's boy but all right I suppose, and good at cricket. I thought nothing more of the matter until three days ago just after I had come to London, when I read a small article in the 'Times'. A candle-maker in Poplar over by the docks had been attacked and had nearly died, again for no discernible reason.” 

Our visitor paused, before adding, “and his name was Mr. James Willoughby-Smith.”

I could see his point. The fact that two gentlemen with what sounded like quite uncommon names had endured similar and near simultaneous unprovoked attacks some two hundred miles apart yet of similar description sounded more than coincidental.

“My grandfather said that I was stupid to bother you with this”, the boy sighed, “but I managed to persuade him to let me come.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly and stared at the boy. He shifted uneasily in his chair. I wondered why but at that moment Mrs. Malone returned briefly with a large tin which she deposited on the table by the door. She smiled and left us.

“You may tell your grandfather three things”, Sherlock said. “First, we wish him well in his recovery from his recent, ahem, 'fall'.”

The boy blushed again. I tried not to entertain a mental image of our policeman friend doing..... That. Honestly, at his age!

“Second”, Sherlock said looking askance at me for some reason, “I shall be delighted to look into this matter for you. And third....”

He grinned widely.

“Thirdly, whatever else befalls you today, do not fail to deliver the cake that your grandfather asked you to bring back 'if there just happened to be one going spare'.”

The boy shook his head in despair.

“Adults!” he sighed. “Why do I have to become one?”

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Once the boy had gone Sherlock fired off a telegram to his cousin Mr. Garrick requesting the names of any more 'James Willoughby-Smith's in England. I was thankful that the irritating oik of a lounge-lizard was not involved but Sherlock assured me it had been made patently clear to Mr. Randall Holmes that his foul presence was not wanted any time soon, and that nothing short of a national emergency would be considered just cause for a visit. But it might be considered just cause for Sherlock to practice using his revolver. 

_Mirabile dictu_ , for once I actually hoped for a (short) visit from the pest! Short and ending in gunfire!

It turned out that although the surname was (surprisingly, I thought) not uncommon, there was only one other Willoughby-Smith by the name of James according to the latest census, a young fellow of twenty-one who was attending Magdalen College, part of Oxford University. I cannot say that the prospect of a further return to the site of our first ever case where Sherlock had had his good work thrown in his face, thrilled me overly much, even if our more recent venture there (The Adventure Of The Three Students) had ended rather more satisfactorily. Fortunately it turned out that the young gentleman in question was on a sports scholarship and was based at a rowing-school situated in the village of Dorchester-on-Thames, some miles south of the city. So it was to Paddington Station and the Great Western Railway that we headed the following day to go and meet him.

We alighted from the train at Cholsey & Moulsford Station, and a carriage took us the few short miles to the school which lay just to the south of the old Roman settlement. It was odd to think that this small village had been the Oxford of its day nearly two thousand years ago but now history (and more importantly, the Great Western Railway) had passed it by. The school was a somewhat dilapidated wooden building and I looked warily at it as we drew up. Sherlock seemed more interested in a team of rowers who were sculling their way down the river than looking where he was going but (just) managed to avoid walking into the door. 

The only fellow in the club was as it turned out a blond muscular giant of a fellow who introduced himself as Mr. Peter Blythe. He cannot have been much more than twenty and I frankly did not like the way that just moments after meeting us he was looking at Sherlock with the sort of expression that I had hitherto seen mostly restricted to a far too large percentage of the female population (plus certain leering Cornish ex-fishermen and equally leering Irish doctors). Damnation, Sherlock was old enough to be the fellow's father! I coughed pointedly and some blue-eyed person who I was sure was _not_ getting laid later that evening did something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

He looked pointedly at me. Make that fairly sure.

The leering giant told us that Mr. Willoughby-Smith who was on the same team as him would normally have been there, but the recent passing of his father had caused him to have to return to the family home. Fortuitously however his house lay in the village of Yoxley not that many miles south of Dorchester so we should catch him there. I was sure that the giant leered again, this time at Sherlock's backside as we walked away and I pointedly moved across his line of sight.

“Very dusty in there, was it not?” Sherlock asked far too innocently.

“Was it?” I asked.

“You were coughing a great deal.”

I hated him!

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We decided to take a carriage all the way to Yoxley as it was not worth resuming the railway for a journey of a single stop with a ride at both ends. We crossed the Thames into Berkshire and passed through Streatley before turning sharply right and ascending a tortuous twisting country lane to reach the village of Yoxley, oddly isolated on its high hill despite the river running by rather too far below. The leering giant at the rowing club had explained that the Willoughby-Smiths lived in a large house called 'Yoxley Old Place' which turned out to be a large place indeed. He had also said that our target had no siblings so this huge place was now all his.

I did not know quite what to make of Mr. James Willoughby-Smith when we finally met him. I supposed that if I had thought about it I would not have expected him to be wearing the same far too skimpy and tight-fitting athletics outfit as his overly muscled and only moderately good-looking leering colleague, but he still seemed ill at ease in a suit and tie. Sherlock explained the purpose of our visit and a frown creased the young gentleman's handsome features.

“I cannot think of anyone who would want to kill me, sir”, he said. “You said that both these other men who share my name survived?”

“I have had more than one case where a murderer has sought to, as the saying goes, hide a leaf in a forest”, Sherlock said. “If yours was the one killing that succeeded many observing might consider that to have been just bad luck. Mr. Blythe told us that you are the last of your line?”

“That is true”, the fellow said. “I am engaged to a Miss Eliza Montgomery from Cholsey – you must have used the station there if you went to Dorchester although the village lies some way from it – and we are due to marry next year. I would have liked to have wed sooner but she wished for a regimental pastor who is serving in India and due home this Christmas to conduct the service, to which request I naturally yielded.”

“Who would inherit the estate in the event of your death?” Sherlock asked. The young man frowned.

“My cousin Bill I suppose”, he said.

“You suppose?” I asked curiously. If I had been the last person of my lineage, I was certain that I would have very thoroughly checked several of those who came after me, if only because my life with Sherlock made me aware that too many of such people were far too often not minded to wait for nature to take its course.

“Bill wouldn't hurt a fly!” Mr. Willoughby-Smith said scornfully. “I can't imagine him doing anything like that. Where did the other attacks take place, may I ask?”

“London and north Devonshire”, Sherlock told him. “Fortunately an astute young friend of ours spotted the connection which is why we came to warn you.”

“Do you really think that I could be attacked?” the man asked dubiously.

“I think it likely”, Sherlock said. He looked around the room curiously. “I see that you have a cabinet over there with trophies in it. Are they yours?”

The young man laughed.

“I am far too young to have won such baubles as yet, sirs”, he said. “My father however was a brilliant shooter, and those are all his.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose that now this new version of the Olympics Games has taken off, some of you will be hoping to represent the country in that?” he asked.

For some reason this question seemed to unnerve our host slightly.

“I do not think that I am really good enough”, he said modestly.

“Not like the brilliant Saint John Ashe who won for us last year”, Sherlock said. “Did anyone from the club go to Athens and witness his hard-fought victory?”

“They did not, sir. Such an expensive trip would have been beyond our club’s means.”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. I wondered if he was going to ask another question but we were interrupted by a footman with a message for our host. He took it and glanced briefly at it then read it again, looking rather more worried.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It says, 'third time lucky'”, the gentleman said looking suddenly very pale. “Lord, you were right!”

“We must act!” Sherlock said firmly. “I know that one must respect the law wherever possible, but I will not allow your cousin to finish what he was very obviously started. I will send a telegram to my cousin Luke and tell him that I _demand_ an agent to track down your relative and stop him from committing this foul act!”

I wondered at that. Why not safeguard the young fellow ourselves? But perhaps my friend was still feeling not one hundred per cent yet.

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Sherlock insisted on staying in the Old Place until he had received a telegram from his cousin that the unseen 'Bill' was being closely monitored. He then seemed quite happy to go and I wondered at his confidence. Might the murderer not give his shadow the slip and out-fox him?

All right, I _was_ that stupid. No need to go on about it!

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Sherlock seemed to take an unusually long read of the 'Times' the following morning and I wondered why. The day proceeded quietly enough until a little after lunchtime when 221B had two unexpected guests. Mr. Garrick and Mr. James Willoughby-Smith.

“I hate to admit it”, Mr. Garrick said grudgingly (he again looked terrible; he was actually listing to one side!), “but you were right on this one, Sherlock. Last night this gentleman's cousin took a gun and went to try to kill him. We laid a trap in the bed so he just fired into a set of blankets. When he saw we had four policemen in the room he tried to shoot his way out. He did not make it.”

I winced.

“Are the policemen all right?” I asked. 

“One of them sustained a minor injury”, Mr. Garrick said, “but nothing serious. He is not even off work with it, although I suspect he thinks that that is a bad thing.”

“So there is no death in the Willoughby-Smith case”, Sherlock said. He seemed oddly calm even compared to of late, I thought.

“That is the odd part”, his cousin said. “Bill, it turned out, was short for Willoughby; it was a family name. So Willoughby-Smith hyphenated was all right, but Willoughby Smith without the hyphen died.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and thought for a moment, staring in fascination into the fire. I wondered what he was thinking. Then he turned and stared at the young gentleman.

“I do have one question, if I may?” he said.

“Of course, sir.”

_“Who the blazes are you?”_

I stared at him in shock. The young man sat back, evidently nonplussed.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Well, I know for one thing that you are almost certainly not Mr. James Willoughby-Smith”, Sherlock said. “I doubt that you have ever rowed a boat in your young life, despite your physique. So who are you?”

The young man looked across at Mr. Garrick for help. Sherlock's cousin stared back at him then, to my surprise, laughed uproariously.

“One of these days”, he said, sounding almost rueful. “One of these days, Sherlock, I am going to put one over on you!”

“Mathematically I suppose that that is just about possible”, Sherlock said with a smile, “but today will not be that day. This whole thing was a ramp from start to finish, was it not?”

His brother nodded.

“John said that you were depressed”, he said. “I talked with your friend LeStrade and we set the whole thing up. We knew that you would be unlikely to turn down an appeal from his grandson.”

“So our friend is uninjured?” Sherlock asked. 

I sighed; trust him to fix on that. His cousin shook his head.

“That bit was true”, he grinned. “Poor Galahad!”

“Who is this gentleman?” Sherlock asked looking at our other visitor.

“Mr. Lawrence Denton, the son of an old college friend of mine.”

“I'm sorry, sir”, the young man said blushing.

“That is all right”, Sherlock said warmly. “You did quite well and only gave yourself away in three small ways, two of which were because I had become suspicious and was testing you.”

“How, sir? If you do not mind me asking?”

Sherlock smiled.

“You said that the trophies were your father's for shooting”, he said. “I only had a short amount of time in which to look at them but I still spotted ones for fishing, archery and tennis in there. Unless your father was an all-round sportsman I doubt that he would have had time to have won things in _all_ those activities!”

The young man blushed.

“That made me suspicious”, Sherlock said, “hence the Olympic references. Our nation's best rower is one Mr. Saint _George_ Ashe, not Saint John. Also, if you were as committed to your sport as it appeared then you would surely have known that although rowing had been scheduled as an Olympic sport in Athens, bad weather had forced it to be cancelled.”

I gaped. He had the brass neck to accuse _me_ of knowing too much about the social pages while he was a walking sports encyclopaedia! Harrumph!

“I just wanted to help you get back into the swing of things”, Mr. Garrick said.

I was about to say that we should all move on from this when a thought struck me.

“Wait a minute!” I said. “What about that Blythe fellow who looked at Sherlock in that way?”

“In what way, doctor?” Luke grinned. “Peter is Lawrence's friend at the school and he 'bats for our team'. Doubtless he was just enjoying a mighty fine riverside view.”

I scowled at that.

“I think that this meeting is over”, Sherlock said, and I gulped. That was the first time he had used The Voice since before the attack. “John is clearly suffering from jealousy issues, and that needs to be resolved as a matter of urgency. I dare say that I will see you shortly, brother.”

“I think you will be seeing a lot of the doctor even more shortly!” Luke leered, quite unnecessarily. “Come on, Larry. Let us leave before we see things that would doubtless scar you forever!”

Sherlock shook hands with the two visitors and showed them to the door, then turned back to me.

“Oh John......”

I trembled like a leaf in December. Lord have mercy on my poor backside!

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The Lord did not. And Colonel Sherlock definitely earned that promotion to Brigadier!

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	4. Case 234: The Adventure Of The Missing Three-Quarter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherlock was often called in to find something that had been stolen – but this was surely the first time that he had ever been asked to investigate something that had NOT been stolen!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I suppose that I should have been somewhat chagrined at not being included in the Yoxley Case which helped restore my friend to his old self, but I had to (grudgingly) admit that he was right when he said that I was a terrible liar. At least I had my old Sherlock back for which I was truly grateful.

To be exact, _most_ of me was truly grateful. Certain parts of my anatomy, however, had other views on the matter. For following the departure of Mr. Garrick and Mr. Denton from Baker Street, Sherlock had informed Mrs. Malone that we would both be 'unavailable' for the next two weeks (her smirk was uncalled for, I felt, and the snigger I heard as she left was pushing it even for someone who had a pistol in the house). Then he had turned to me, and......

I had never ached so much in my entire life. He had seemed determined to mark his return to the fray with a bang – literally! - and I was just along for the ride. I had never been so used in our whole relationship.

Lord but it was _glorious!_

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March arrived and what little was left of me found it hard to believe that it was some three months since our return from Futility Island. The winter had been fierce (yes, Sherlock had been fiercer; no need to say it!) and I was glad of both the warm Baker Street fire and the human heater that I slept with every night. I was reading about the latest French manoeuvres around the edges of the Sudan – they seemed determined to do the Germans' work for them and shatter the undeclared Anglo-French alliance, I thought – when a voice cut into my thoughts from across the breakfast table.

“John, what do you make of this?”

Sherlock was holding out a letter which bore all the hallmarks of many such that came to the house. I took and examined it.

“Cheap paper”, I said. “Sent from Kent; the town of Lydd is in Romney Marsh I know. The writing is very neat.” 

I read it aloud:  
 _“'Dear Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson,_  
 _I hope that you are both well. Do you have the time to investigate a rather strange case that concerns my grandfather? He is worried that a portrait owned by his former employer has not been stolen._  
 _Yours most respectfully,_  
 _Edwin Hallott (Master)_  
 _Postscriptum: If you do write back please send to me care of my grandfather's cottage in the town, 'Cherry-Tree Cottage', as my parents do not know that I am writing to you. Thank you kindly.'”_

I read it again to make sure that I had not erred, then looked across at Sherlock.

“I suppose that you have started cases with less to go on”, I said with a laugh, “but not many. Although his wording is certainly very strange, asking you to find something that has not been taken.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think you underestimate young Master Hallott”, he smiled. “He has provided just enough information to tantalize and to provoke the question as to why his grandfather is possibly delusional. He must know that we must receive many similar requests so he has striven to make his own stand out. I have to admit, he has rather succeeded.”

“You are going to Kent?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course not!” he said firmly. When I looked surprised he amended, _“we_ are going to Kent.”

I smiled. In times past I would have objected at his assuming my readiness to fall in with his plans, but now.... now I wanted to spend every waking minute I had with the man.

Yes and the sleeping ones as well! Even if he did sometimes treat me as some sort of personal climbing-frame of an evening!

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Kent is rightly famous as the Garden of England, but I had been to Romney Marsh before and knew that that area was very different from the rest of the county. The ever changing tides and shorelines of the British Isles were reflected particularly here; this area was indeed mostly marshland and very thinly populated, inland Lydd being the only place of any size apart from some small seaside resorts stretching down from Hythe. The address that young Master Hallott had mentioned was close to the railway station and as the weather was fine we opted to walk. The only downside was the wind across the flat marsh which made Sherlock's hair look as if we had.... well, you know. But that had been way back last night.

He shot me another of those annoying looks of his. All right, and this morning. 

Another look. Yes, before _and_ after breakfast. I think Sherlock had said something about making up for lost time but my hearing, like what little remained of my other senses, was somewhere in the aether at the time. The cab-ride several thousand miles to Victoria Station had been damn painful, I knew that!

Cherry-Tree Cottage was a well-kept small house in the High Street with a delightful little garden and roses clambering up and down the porch. A grey-haired elderly lady was kneeling down tending the roses and rose stiffly to her feet as we approached. 

“May I be helping you gentlemen?” she asked politely. Sherlock smiled.

“I am looking for the grandparents of one Master Edwin Hallott.”

The lady's face took on a decidedly put-upon expression. 

“What has the young scamp been up to _this_ time?” she sighed. “I'm Mrs. Sopwith, Eddie's grandmother, so it's my husband you'll be wanting. He's inside. Come you in.”

She led us inside to a main room that was as spick and span as the garden that she had been tending. A silver-haired gentleman was sat reading in a rocking-chair by the fire, and looked up as we entered.

“Mr. Sopwith?” Sherlock said. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson.”

He looked at us uncertainly. 

“You were in the paper”, he said slowly. “Solving crimes and stuff. Young Eddie kept cutting all the bits out - _often before I got to read 'em!”_

“I should apologize for your grandson's over-eagerness”, Sherlock smiled. “He has sent me a letter asking me to investigate a case for him. Concerning yourself.”

The elderly man looked astonished.

“Me?” he said querulously. “I've not been involved in any crimes. Have I, Mary?”

His wife chuckled and turned to Sherlock.

“Did the young scamp say what it was all about?” she asked.

“Only that you were apparently confused that a portrait had, and I quote, 'not been stolen'”, Sherlock said. “I was quite intrigued. It is rare that I am called in to investigate where an item has very definitely _not_ been taken.”

The elderly man sighed.

“You had both better sit down”, he said.

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“I retired only a few weeks back”, he began. “I used to work for old Lord Etchingham who owns Moonraker House up on the cliff. Wonderful place to work, looking over one of the busiest seaways in the world yet so peaceful.”

He looked wistful as he remembered. Sherlock smiled.

“Please continue”, he said.

“Lord Etchingham, who’s about sixty-five, married twice, first to Lady Sophia then to Lady Rebecca”, our host said. “Lady Sophia died of a fever after about five years, while Lady Rebecca dumped him after only three when she took up with some fancy Frenchman. She went to court to try to get money off of him and all she got was a legal bill, though I doubt she's paid it knowing her. Her gigolo dumped her when she lost the case and didn’t get any money; folks round here enjoyed that I can tell you! Neither marriage had any children. His Lordship's not been in the best of health these past twelve months; I offered to stay on if necessary but he wouldn't hear of it.”

“I suppose in your business you need to know the who gets what bit. On His Lordship's death the estate passes whole to his brother William, Mr. Comeau-de la Blaise. He’s five years younger, maybe six, I’m not sure. A right hoity-toity sort; he sticks his nose so far up that I’m still hoping he might walk off the edge of the cliffs one day! He's never married – no women in England is _that_ desperate! - and after him it goes to the third and last brother Mr. Edwy. He's actually their half-brother and if I’ve got it right around fifteen years younger than Mr. William, so about forty-five. He’s also the only one who’s married; he has two boys and a girl so the estate would've been all right with him. Least that was what I'd thought.”

“What made you change your mind?” I asked.

“I don't understand such things but apparently land 'aint the money-spinner it used to be”, Mr. Sopwith said. “His Lordship's estate manager, a right oily little know-it-all called Mr. Aloysius Derrington of all things, told him that the best investments were things like art, rare coins, stamps and such. I s'pose there's some truth in that; the prices those things fetch in the papers make my eyes water – when I can read about them with Eddie around!”

“You think that Mr. Derrington is involved in what has happened?” Sherlock asked. “Or not happened?”

“I know it for a fact”, the old man said firmly. “And there's another thing that was a bit rum. His Lordship trusts the man for some reason; the week before I finished he had his lawyer up there to add something to his will. A code-something-or-other.”

“Codicil”, I said. “A legal addition to a will, signed and witnessed as the original. A cheaper way of changing the distribution of assets without having to write a whole new will.”

Sherlock looked at our host thoughtfully. 

“America”, Mrs. Sopwith prompted.

“Oh, that”, her husband said, nodding. “Mr. William lives just down the road in Hastings but Mr. Edwy went to do something or other in the United States some ten years back. Thing is, my grandson's right. Weird things had been happening in that house and I was almost glad when my retirement came round in February so I could hop it.”

“What 'weird things' precisely?” Sherlock asked.

“One night last October – the twenty-second it was; I made a note – I couldn't sleep. I decided to slip out the servants' entrance and go get some sea air. The road up to the house comes up the side I was going to and I was almost there when I saw it. The skies were clear and it was almost a Full Moon. Two men were carrying out a portrait from the house and placing it in the cart – _and Mr. Derrington was stood right there watching them!”_

“They drove off with it?” Sherlock asked.

“That was the thing”, our host admitted. “They were three to my one so I didn't dare challenge 'em. I knew the painting all right; it was the one young Edwin called 'the Three-Quarter' when he helped me out one time, because it showed King Charles the First at his dinner, with three quarts of ale on the table. It hangs in the main hall and must be worth a fortune. No idea who painted it though.”

_(The painting in question was actually done by the famous Sir Anthony Van Dyck and was one of his last works. It was valuable not just because of that but also because a second (unknown) artist, possibly a student of the famous painter, had added some subtle additions reflecting the troubles leading to the terrible English Civil War that had broken out the year after Sir Anthony's death, and his 'political commentaries' had not been spotted until 1688, the year of the Glorious Revolution. They had resulted in the social ruin of one family who had always portrayed themselves as Royalists but had been secretly funding the Parliamentarian cause; that family had been one of King James the Second's strongest supporters and he lost their backing just before his own time of trial)._

“What did you do afterwards?” I asked. 

I was not prepared for the reply.

“Nothing!”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“Nothing?” I echoed.

“Next day I came out of the kitchen into the hallway still mulling over what was best to do”, he said, “and I got the shock of my life! There the damn thing was, in its usual place. Decided I must have imagined the whole thing!”

“That is always possible”, Sherlock said. “However let us assume for a moment that you did not. A painting was taken out of the building yet returned by the following morning. Interesting.....”

He pushed his long fingers together in thought.

“Mr. Sopwith”, he said, “you have made your opinions of both your former employer and Mr. Aloysius Derrington quite clear. I would be grateful if you do the same for the characters of Lord Etchingham's brothers, Mr. William and Mr. Edwy.”

“Over twenty years of service means I can do just that, sirs”, he smiled. “Mr. William is not someone I would care to trust with tuppence to do some shopping. It pains me to say it but I think he can't wait to get his greedy mitts on the estate. Mr. Edwy is a bright young thing for his age; a bit of a flibbertigibbet but his heart's in the right place. I think he’d make a much better lord of the manor. He married a lady over from the United States – I think that may have been why he went there as he met her first when she was over here – and that seems to have settled him a bit. A black lady which Mr. William made a lot of noise over but so what? He was due back later this year but he had to delay because his wife's expecting again and he didn't want to risk her health with a sea-journey.”

Sherlock thought again, for some time.

“Does Mr. Derrington live at the manor house?” he asked eventually.

“No, sir”, Mr. Sopwith said. “Cycles in every day. He has a house in Appledore where you would've changed trains on the way down here. He did spend some days there when we were snowed in last Christmas and I think His Lordship offered him rooms there for good, but I s'pose he thought what with the change of ownership he might well be out as soon as he was in. Probably right about that.”

“Mr. William would not keep him on as an estate manager?” Sherlock asked.

“That's the only good thing about Mr. Derrington”, Mr. Sopwith said, frowning. “Hates Mr. William something fierce. Don't know why though, unless it’s just because he’s Mr. William!”

Sherlock sighed.

“Appledore”, he said. “A pity. I do not suppose you happen to know if Mr. Derrington has any relatives in the area?”

“His brother at Ashford, sir”, Mrs. Sopwith put in. “Name of Theodosius if you please, married two years back and his wife's expecting too. They came down to see him and attended the church fete last year. A much more pleasant gentleman in my humble opinion; we were fund-raising for the church roof and he made a big donation. There's another brother up North somewhere, Yorkshire I think.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said. “I must say, your grandson has presented me with a most challenging case. I can see _what_ has happened here but not _why_ , and that is clearly the key to understanding matters. Mr. Sopwith, you said that this non-theft took place on October the twenty-second. Have there been any further incidents?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, then smiled.

“It may seem an odd question”, he said, “but has the room in which the paintings were kept been redecorated at all recently?”

The old couple both looked at him in astonishment.

“How could you know that, sir?” Mr. Sopwith asked. “Yes, just before the picture thing. His Lordship had some men in to repaint the entrance-hall and the gallery. Very finicky job, what with the paintings having to be taken down and all. It needed doing though; place looked a lot brighter afterwards.”

“Were the paintings moved to another room?” Sherlock asked, his eyes alight for some reason. I wondered why a simple repainting of a room would have interested him so.

“Yes, and a locked one”, Mr. Sopwith said. “Only His Lordship had the key; one of the other servants told me that he had to keep it on him for the insurance or some such reason. But the men weren't painting anywhere near the Three-Quarter when I saw it being taken – or not taken; they were in the other room. That's what made it so odd.”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock smiled. “It explains everything!”

Evidently it had not done so to the Sopwiths who looked as much in the dark as I was. However our discussion was interrupted at that moment when a fair-haired boy of about sixteen years of age blew into the room without knocking. He looked in surprise at all of us then beamed.

“You came!” he exclaimed.

“Master Edwin Hallott I presume”, Sherlock said. “Yes, we came. You were quite right to summon us. This is indeed a most intriguing case.”

“Have you solved it yet?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Edwin!” his grandmother said sharply. The boy blushed at the reproof.

“I think that I have”, Sherlock said, “but I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course!” the boy beamed. “Anything!”

“Be patient!” Sherlock grinned. 

Master Hallott's face fell. 

“Why?” he whined.

Sherlock walked over and stood before the boy. Young Master Hallott was tall for his age but like our recent acquaintance Galahad LeStrade he was all bones and angles. Even Sherlock's slender form dominated him although I knew that there were a lot of muscles in my man, especially....

_Not the time! So not the time!_

“You will know from the doctor's books that sometimes cases cannot be fully discussed because certain facts that are difficult or embarrassing for innocent people”, Sherlock said, smiling for some reason that I could well guess, the bastard. “Yours may I feel prove to be one such case. It may be some time – years even – before the doctor can publish the events surrounding it. But you have my word as a gentleman that I will let you know as much as I can and as soon as I can, so one day you may read about your very own adventure.”

To my surprise the boy sighed at that.

“I do not even have any of your stories”, he said. The nearest place with a library is Ashford and I don't get to go there often enough to be able to borrow them. I can only read them when Mother and Father do their shopping there, and the village shop here does not stock the 'Strand'.”

“Dear me, we cannot have _that!”_ Sherlock said, looking vexed. “Well, as someone who has provided inspiration for one of my cases it is only fair that once that story is eventually published you should receive your own copy, signed by both of us. Indeed I am sure that if you ask nicely, the doctor may even be persuaded to forward you copies of all his books.”

The boy looked hopefully across at me and I nodded my acquiescence.

“Wow!” he exclaimed.

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“What did you mean about Mr. Derrington's house in Appledore being 'a pity'?” I asked later. Sherlock had hired a carriage from the town stables and we were making our way to Moonraker House. 

“You saw it when we changed trains”, Sherlock said, clicking at the reins, “even if the village itself was over a mile away from the station. What did you see?”

“Flatness”, I said. “And wetness. It is a marsh after all.”

“Exactly”, he said.

This time I was the one to pout. 

“Doctors who pout tend to pay for it later!” he said with a knowing smile.

I shuddered. And pouted even more.

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We arrived at the great house which stood up on a cliff with magnificent views up and down the English Channel (I presume, I was staring rather hard at the ground and ignoring some smirking ha'p'orth right next to me). Sherlock presented our cards and we waited to see if we might be admitted. My friend rather oddly sniffed at three of the paintings in the entrance-hall before the maid returned and we were summoned into the presence of Godwin, Lord Etchingham himself. He was a tired-looking elderly gentleman in a wheelchair though he batted away the attentions of the nurse who was trying to re-arrange his blankets.

“Greetings, gentlemen”, he said. “Of course I have heard of you. May I ask what brings you to this remote part of our scepter'd isle?”

Sherlock bowed and I did likewise.

“I wish to talk to you about certain events in this house of late”, Sherlock said. “It would be beneficial if your estate manager were to be here as well.”

“Aloysius?”, the old man said looking surprised. “What do you want with him?”

I wondered at his calling an employee of his by his Christian name. Even on so short an acquaintance he did not seem that sort of person. But then one never knew with the English nobility.

“I would much prefer to discuss that solely with the two of you”, Sherlock said, eyeing the nurse who was clearly all agog. “As I am sure you know, sir, I often prefer to do things my own way rather than to involve the offices of the law.”

The threat was faint but implied. The old man looked at us for a moment then instructed the nurse to fetch the estate manager and to take a break herself. She flounced off, clearly annoyed.

Mr. Aloysius Derrington was much as Mr. Sopwith had described him, clinically efficient and smartly-dressed. There was however a note of care in the way that he checked his master's blankets before taking the seat next to him, and his attitude towards us was markedly defensive. Sherlock clearly picked up on it too.

“Have no fear, gentlemen”, he said. “I know what little game you have both been playing of late and I am sure that, if necessary, I could bring the whole thing to a crashing halt. Yet I also know that you had good reasons for your actions. As I am sure you are both aware, I apply justice rather than the strict letter of the law. Be honest with me and I will deal fairly with you.”

“Speak on, sir”, Lord Etchingham said. I noticed his hand shaking slightly as he spoke.

“I must say that of the many crimes that I have seen perpetrated in my time, this one was one of the most smartly executed”, Sherlock said. “Had it not been for your recently-retired butler needing a breath of night air at precisely the wrong moment, you would surely never have been detected.”

“There has been no crime here”, Mr. Derrington said stoutly. Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“A deliberate attempt to disinherit a rightful heir?” he said with a smile. “Come now, gentlemen.”

The two men said nothing.

“You, Lord Etchingham, feared for the future of the estate”, Sherlock said. “You knew the character of your brother William and thought, perhaps correctly, that he would fritter away your ancestors' hard-won inheritance leaving little or nothing for your brother Edwy and the next generation. Your lands and title go back to the great Elizabeth and you not unnaturally wished for it to continue. Your brother had to be stopped – but how?”

“The house itself was safe, entailed as it doubtless is to prevent it being sold off except as a last resort. But the rest of the estate – a considerable sum of money – could easily be wasted away by your feckless brother. Although he is not much younger than you he might have years in which to wreak havoc and leave nothing but the house itself for Mr. Edwy when he inherits. You, showing a cunning worthy of the monarch who ennobled your ancestor, found a most devious way to stop him.”

“You had an essential ally in Mr. Derrington here, a fellow who though seemingly cold on the surface is clearly committed to those he deems worthy of his loyalty. Your plan was may I say _most_ ingenious. First you sold off your various land-holdings and purchased high-quality works of art which you displayed in your home here. There was nothing unusual about that; land is a poor return just now and many wealthy people are doing the same or similar. But you took things a step further.”

“It would of course have been easy for Mr. William, on inheriting, to have 'cashed in' all the artworks in his possession. Your plan made sure that that could not happen. You had commissioned a high-quality faker to reproduce each of the works that you had purchased, then over a number of nights the original artwork was taken from the house and the fakes put in their places. Your recently-retired butler was not unnaturally confused to see thieves taking away a painting one night only to see it back in its rightful place the very next morning! It was a letter about his apparently delusional tendencies from his grandson that brought me into the case.”

The nobleman smiled at that.

“The only problem was the obvious one about the new paint, which has a distinctive smell that the servants would surely have picked up on”, Sherlock went on. “But you covered that danger very cleverly. By ordering a simultaneous redecoration of the rooms where the paintings were displayed you made them think that what they could smell was the fresh wall-paint, not the paintings themselves. I had considered the possibility that Mr. Derrington was behind the whole thing and defrauding you for his own gain, but only _you_ could have authorized such a thing to have occurred at precisely the right time.”

“You seem to know almost everything, sir”, Lord Etchingham said heavily. “What do you intend to do about it, may I inquire?”

Sherlock smiled.

“At the moment, nothing.”

Both men looked shocked. 

“Now that you have confirmed what I believed to be the case, I know that there has been no real crime”, Sherlock said. “The money will remain in the estate – I assume that once your brother passes on, Mr. Derrington will inform Mr. Edwy of the location of the original paintings – and the new Lord will be able to run his estate as he chooses. Let us all hope that he proves worthy of your considerable efforts.”

“Thank you, sir”, Mr. Derrington said heartily.

“I have but one small question”, Sherlock said. “I know that you could not store the paintings in the local area for any great length of time, because this high land apart the Marsh's damp environment is detrimental towards such delicate artwork. You, Mr. Derrington, have a brother in Ashford. Are the paintings stored at his house?”

“Not quite”, Mr. Derrington said. “He has a secure garage next to his workshop and they are kept there. Boxed up, perfectly safe and above all, dry.”

“Excellent”, Sherlock smiled.

“You have dealt most fairly with me, sir”, Lord Etchingham said in his slow tone, “and I would not hold anything back from you. There is one piece of the puzzle that you do not have although it does not impinge directly on the case. Aloysius here is blood; the illegitimate son of my cousin Henry Derrington. My great-grandfather Horatio, the sixth Lord Etchingham, was his great-great-grandfather.”

Mr. Derrington wrapped a possessive arm around his cousin.

“His Lordship stepped in when my own family disowned me as a bastard”, he said harshly. “I owe him everything. When his time comes I will see his wishes fulfilled to the letter. That I do solemnly swear.”

“Then it is my pleasure to wish you both good-day”, Sherlock smiled. “And good fortune in your endeavours.”

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Sherlock visited the Sopwiths before we left the area and explained his findings to them knowing that they would keep confidence. We then adjourned to the station and our train back to London.

However even the best-laid plans of mice, men and consulting detectives are wont to go awry sometimes. Just minutes after our arrival back at Appledore the stationmaster came out and told us that there had been a derailment on the line just north of there and no trains could get through to Ashford. We would have to wait for the next northbound train which would reverse here to take us south to Hastings and a much longer journey back to London. I sighed in annoyance.

The weather had turned to a cold sleet, and the next train seemed to take an age to arrive and then for the engine to run round. But at least we obtained a first-class compartment to ourselves and better still a private non-corridor one. Sherlock looked at me curiously as I all but fell into the seat.

“You have been a little off ever since we came here”, he observed. “Why?”

“I had a case down here during your 'death'”, I said, still shuddering at the painful memory. It had only been a little over four years ago though it seemed so much longer given all that had happened before and since. “The end of 'Ninety-Two; an important patient of the surgery's asked if I could spend a month with her son and his heavily pregnant wife at least until the child arrived as she had had severe problems with her first birth. They had a house in Camber, just over the border in Sussex but still part of the Marsh. I hated the place at the time but it matched my mood without you.”

He nodded and I was so lost in my thoughts that I did not notice him lowering the blinds until he spoke again.

“Then we had better make some good new memories to counter the bad old ones”, he growled, and with The Voice I went from zero to hard in seconds. He pulled me up and was groping my backside when the train started with a jerk, toppling us both back onto the seat. He quickly manoeuvred himself from my grip and levered my erect cock from my trousers, then shrugged off his own trousers in record time. I was of course much slower, but he used that time to work himself open in short order.

“It is some miles to the next stop”, he said, squatting over me and positioning my cock at his entrance. “But let us not waste time.”

And with that me was pushing down onto me. I groaned in pleasure, my moans only increasing as the jerks of the train caused me to move inside of him. He let out a guttural growl and reached down to kiss me.

“Go for it!” he ordered.

So on a South Eastern Railway train chuffing merrily through the empty wastes of Romney Marsh I did precisely that, thrusting into him and aiming straight for his prostate. I tweaked both his nipples simultaneously then ran a hand down his chest before squeezing his cock hard. He arched his back and whined, then came violently, splattering both our shirts. The sight was too much for me and I followed him over the edge, filling the man I loved with my seed.

I was too exhausted to do much more and it was well for us that Sherlock had enough wits left to clean us both up and make us presentable before we reached Rye. Though even opening the far window did little to alleviate the smell of thoroughly-fucked male that permeated the carriage and it was a good thing that there were no first-class passengers along the line to disturb our post-coital bliss.

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Postscriptum: Two months later Sherlock was reading through his usual flurry of letters when he found one which apparently amused him. I looked up at his chuckle.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Listen to this”, he said. “William, Lord Etchingham, having recently come into what he had thought to be a prosperous estate from his late brother Godwin, is _shocked_ to find that someone has contrived to replace all the valuable paintings in his collection with copies. He positively commands that we go down to somewhere called Moonraker House in deepest Kent to investigate this horrible crime!”

I smiled.

“Will you take the case?” I asked innocently. He pretended to think about it for a few moments then shook his head. 

“I cannot possibly see how such a crime could have been effected!” he said. “Besides, Romney Marsh is not a healthy environment at all. No, regretfully I shall have to decline his request. What a pity!”

I laughed at his insincerity. And as it turned out the new Lord Etchingham did not live long to enjoy his inheritance, dying of the flu the following winter. I was therefore able to follow up my package of all my books which I had sent to young Master Hallott with the magazine version of the case, and a promise that when I got round to publishing it in book form he would be receiving a double-signed first edition. I received a very pleasant letter of thanks in return. There is hope for the young generation, it seems.

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	5. Case 235: The Adventure Of 'Mrs. Battleship' ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherlock is asked to help defend an artist whose political cartoons risk landing him in court. The great detective digs into matters and finds that the world of women's suffrage campaigning – for and against – is more convoluted than even he had thought.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

One of the most annoying aspects of being a consulting detective was what I sometimes only got called in on cases when a race against time was almost up, as if those requesting my services treated me as some sort of last resort. That had of course been shown last year in the horrific North Elmham case (The Adventure Of The Doomed Heir) and a lot more light-heartedly some years further back with the ghastly Huffington-Brands in Yorkshire (The Adventure Of The Arnsworth Inheritance). I suppose that at least this time round I had longer. 

If only slightly longer.

“One week”, I said heavily, looking pointedly at our visitor. “That is not long, sir.”

Mr. Albert Bundy was an American who had moved to London after his marriage. He was not unlike John in appearance and age (which may or may not have more kindly disposed me towards him), and was very clearly a worried man. He flicked his thinning blond hair back out his eyes and looked hopefully at me.

“You see, sir”, he said, “it's like this. I work in a ladies' shoe-shop in Oxford Street, and some of the customers.... they're horrible! If they treated each other the way they treat the likes of me, the newspapers would be up in arms!”

“You seem to have rather ensured that they are”, I pointed out.

“It was just a bit of fun when my friend got me that job drawing cartoons for the newspaper, sir”, he said, wrapping his hands around each other nervously. “It was so easy, with some of the women I have to serve – I won't call them ladies because there's no way they even come close – and I started developing characters for them all.”

“But now one of the people upon whom you based your sketches is suing the newspaper, and demanding to know your identity”, I said. “Mrs. Battle.”

John, unhelpful as he was wont to be at times like these, just had to go and snigger. Our client's latest sketch had featured 'Mrs. Battleship', sailing into action to advance the cause of women's suffrage and ploughing through waves of helpless politicians. Our guest had been a little too close to the mark perhaps; Mrs. Battle was..... not a small lady.

“It's freedom of speech”, our guest said. “I don't care if they're offended by the truth, but this could ruin me!”

I thought for a moment. Another reason that I was disposed to help this particular client was my disgraced former brother – that sounded so good! – Torver had long opposed women's suffrage, so clearly it had to be a good thing. Although there might well be Torvers on the other side of the debate as well.

“The trouble with your country's much-vaunted freedom of speech is that it is like being pregnant”, I said, to our client's evident confusion. “One cannot be pregnant but in a limited way any more than one can have limited freedom of speech, save if it directly endangers life or limb. Or as I have heard it rather oddly put, shouting ‘fire!’ in a crowded theatre. Formidable as she is and much as she would certainly disagree, this woman's hurt feelings do not in my opinion count as endangering life or limb. I shall look into this matter for you, Mr. Bundy.”

He smiled in relief.

“Thank you, sir”, he said.

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“His cartoons are definitely funny”, John smiled once our guest had left. I can see why some people would be offended, but surely even the likes of Mrs. Jacquetta Brigham Battle cannot expect a court to rule in their favour just because they do not like what someone says about them?”

“You misread Mrs. Battle”, I told him. “It is not damages that she wants, but the destruction of the fellow who has dared to poke fun at _her_ of all people. You have looked at these cartoons; is there any pattern to the people selected for Mr. Bundy's jests?”

“Four are very prominent in the women's suffrage movement”, he said. “I suppose that some or all of them could belong to the same club or lodge, or whatever they call it? For all the noise they make it is not yet a large movement, although it is a growing one.”

“I am going out to post a letter and to wire our friend Miss St. Leger to look into these people”, I said, picking up the list he had made. “I shall also call in at Branksome's and pick you up one of their chocolate meringues.”

He beamed at me.

“Thank you”, he said.

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One thoroughly wrecked English doctor lay gasping on the bed before me. It was just possible that I may have neglected to mention to my beloved just what I expected as payment for his meringue, which was still in its box. For the cartoon of 'Mrs. Battleship' had given me an idea, and I had also called in at 'That Shop' in Baker Street from which I had emerged with a sailor's hat (rather daringly labelled 'H.M.S. Impaler'!). 

In which I had just impaled John. Three times.

“I know you do not like the sea overly much”, I smiled as he tried to recover”, but I thought that this might give you some happier memories.”

“You gave me a whole lot more!” he managed. “Please say that we do not have to go anywhere this afternoon! I doubt that I could make it down to the first floor!”

“Not to worry”, I said cheerily. “We can stay here and have a nice, relaxing afternoon in. Would you like your meringue now?”

He pouted at me, which was damnably unfair. That only made me want to make it four!

“I am not sure that I have the strength to lift it!” he groaned.

I smiled and fetched him his meringue, which he was just about able to manage to hold. The look of absolute adoration I got – I wanted to rush back down to the bakery and buy the whole damn shop!

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I was a little surprised that it took the efficient Miss St. Leger some twenty-four hours to find the information that I had asked for, but when I saw the size of the folder that she had sent, I understood (and it had the added bonus of her using Benji to carry it, which always annoyed John no end!). Although when I started reading through the files on the various targets of Mr. Bundy's humour, my eyebrows shot up. I would never view the women's suffrage movement – those for _and_ against; I had been right in my assumptions there – in quite the same away again!

I thought for some little time on my next course of action, then sent a telegram round asking Mr. Bundy to call by. I had some ideas for his next cartoon, once I had 'persuaded' his newspaper to publish a whole week of the things. Some people in high society were in for a shock!

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Two days later we had another caller. Mrs. Jacquetta Brigham Battleship – I meant Battle; damn John! She was a large (huge) woman in her fifties, regrettably one of those who thought the more make up the better whereas a paper bag would have been cheaper and best of all. She was _furious!_

“This is an _outrage!”_ she stormed, slamming down Mr. Bundy's newspaper. “I will have this man ruined!”

I stared at the cartoon. It showed 'Mrs. Battleship' in dry dock having her keel cleaned by a Mr. Foot and a Mr. Man. I looked back at the woman in apparent confusion.

“What is wrong with it?” I asked.

 _What is wrong with it?”_ she shrieked. “They are implying that I am having a relationship with my footmen!”

“Shocking!” I said. “You can of course raise this in your forthcoming court case madam, especially as I am sure that someone in your position your _never_ force servants to tend to your needs in such a base manner.”

That gave her pause for thought, as well it might. It would have been an even bigger pause had she known that both the footmen in question had given statements to the newspaper which they were planning to release once the trial was underway. Or to sell to the society magazines if (when) she abandoned her efforts to ruin Mr. Bundy. For putting her own staff through such an ordeal it was the least that they deserved; I had also arranged with my friend Mr. Trent to find both men places elsewhere with immediate effect, as I had been certain that otherwise she would have wreaked vengeance upon them both.

“You must stop this villain!” she stormed. “Even for a man, you must be useful for _something!”_

She sailed out of our rooms and was gone. John opened a window to get ride of the stench of whatever she had taken a bath in that morning.

“I wonder what tomorrow's cartoon will be?” he smiled.

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The following day we had a visit from a Mr. Pardell, secretary to the women's suffrage group of which Mrs. Battle was a member. He was most perturbed.

“Mrs. Woolston is livid”, he told us. “Of course her husband denies the whole sordid thing but.... well, a baby is a baby.”

John and I both looked at the latest of Mr. Bundy's cartoons. It portrayed a severe-looking middle-aged Mrs. Woolly taking tea with her friends (including Mrs. Battleship, I noted) while Mr. Woolly dallied with the housemaid over a child that, from the distinctive nose, was very obviously his.

“Mr. Woolston seems to have some explaining to do”, I said. “He like Mrs. Battle is also a member of your organization, is he not sir?”

Mr. Pardell looked at me curiously.

“How could you know that?” he asked.

“It seemed likely”, I smiled. “I suppose that all the other club members are nervous now, lest they be targeted next for these.... allegations.”

He gulped. He knew as well as I did that these were rather more than allegations, let alone that baby. Because everyone has skeletons in their cupboard – _him included!_

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We had no visitors the following day, but I read in the afternoon edition of the 'Times' that another club member, Lady Brasted, had been ejected from her London home by one somewhat annoyed husband. Apparently he had linked that unpleasant rash that he had endured recently to the cartoon that day which showed 'Lady Brazen' claiming that she would mimic the great Gladstone and take 'gentlemen of negotiable affection' off the streets – _and into her boudoir!_ My friend Sweyn had helped confirm that from someone as he put it 'in a similar neck of the woods'.

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The day after that it was Mr. Pardell who may have had cause to regret reading the newspaper. It was perhaps a bit of a stretch for the cartoon to picture him as 'Purdle the Milkmaid', milking the cow of women's suffrage but putting half the money he was somehow extracting from the animal into buckets marked 'For Me' rather than the ones marked 'For The Cause'. If the group survived then he would likely have more than a few questions to answer.

That same afternoon Mr. Bundy returned to Baker Street, smiling broadly.

“I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, he said. “She has withdrawn! I haven't got much money but I'll pay you what I can.”

I smiled and shook my head at him.

“The price for my services this time will be a small one”, I said, “but you _will_ have to pay it. While I support freedom of speech, I also believe very firmly that those in the press have a moral responsibility to be fair and balanced, something that they do not always manage. I will require you to print three more cartoons in this series, this time targeting the small but vocal groups campaigning _against_ women's suffrage.”

He was clearly surprised at that but nodded.

“That's fine by me, sir”, he said. “No trouble with women – I married one for my sins – and I suppose they'll get the vote one day, but the likes of 'Mrs. Battleship' just make me cringe!”

“I think that we can all agree on that!” I smiled.

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Because people wish to know these things, the next three cartoons featured the sanctimonious Mr. Bailey-Longham hiding large sums of money in foreign bank accounts then pleading poverty to his fellow cause members, Mrs. Abbotsbury at a gun-range remarking to her friends that her gun was not the only thing she kept at home that fired blanks, and Mrs. Bawtry missing a ship-launching because she was 'talking' with some of the sailors. Which reminded me; that hat needed another airing....

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	6. Case 236: Murder In The Meadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. One of Sherlock's darkest cases in which a diplomatic incident is threatened over a missing boy and the killers look set to escape scot-free – until a certain consulting detective offers them a choice.   
> They make the wrong decision....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of particularly gruesome death.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

One of the many things that I admired about that most righteous of men, John Hamish Watson, was that he was able to write up our many adventures together despite the sometimes brutal depravity shown by those involved. I felt this even more when I made my own notes on this case, as even the few lines that I forced myself to scribble down made my stomach turn. In my line of work that takes some doing.

This was another case which had a political angle as it concerned the tiny and inaptly-named ‘Grand’ Duchy of Caronia in eastern Europe. Barely any larger than the Isle of Wight or about twice the size of the District of Columbia in the United States, it might have played but a minor role in history had its position athwart one of the few passes through the Carpathian Mountains not made it a target for every ambitious empire in the vicinity (not for nothing had the 'Times' once featured a cartoon with a map of the place as 'Doormatia'!). The Grand Duke was at this time one of those many 'rulers' subservient to the belligerent Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany but his small nation was geographically separated from the rest of the Fatherland, lying uneasily between Russia and Austria-Hungary. It was also possessed of a narrow Slavic majority (which, predictably, the Russians were always trying to incite to rise up and overthrow their Teutonic masters) so it was deemed important by everyone including Great Britain. 

Which was why it was more than a little unfortunate when the Caronian ambassador to St. James's Court told the British government that someone had found his eldest son's remains on a Buckinghamshire farm – _at the wrong end of a threshing-machine!_

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As I had told John, my annoying brother Randall was barred from Baker Street for anything short of a national emergency. Unfortunately given that relations with Berlin were deteriorating rapidly and those with mighty Russia were at best variable, this was one such. At least I knew that after Torver who now had a permanent limp resulting from a recent Level Eleven (apparently identifying as a Roman pillar had not saved him from her wrath), Mother had made it clear to her other sons that she expected them to treat me well in future, and also that she had just treated herself to a second pearl-handled revolver along with a course of advanced shooting lessons. My lounge-lizard of a brother would, much as it would go against his nature, be minding his behaviour in future. 

On a totally unrelated matter, John very helpfully found a place where I could obtain grape-shot suitable for a lady’s pistol. A most useful thing; we all know how difficult it is to buy suitable presents for close family members. They also offered discounts for bulk purchases, so I simply had to take advantage of that!

Randall duly arrived looking I thought rather untidy considering how much care he usually took over his appearance. I knew that he had bitterly resented having been bested by the Falkland Islander Mr. Jones and that he had been greatly relieved when stories had reached him that that gentleman had declined my request as to what interesting information he had on him. Because I had made sure that that was what he had heard. Mr. Jones had in fact told me everything (I do mean everything!) as he had known that I would only use it _in extremis_. 

Or if the mood took me.

“This is a bloody disaster!” my brother fumed as he sat down in the fireside chair. “Stupid boy wanders off and falls into a bloody threshing-machine, so Grand Duke Gustav goes and blames us!”

I had of course read about the incident in the 'Times' that morning, an unusually graphic article for that paper I had thought. Most inconsiderate of that usually reliable newspaper; it had nearly put me off my (and half of John's) bacon. 

I did say nearly!

“What do you want Sherlock to do about it?” John asked suspiciously, eyeing my brother with disfavour. “He can hardly put the boy back together again!”

Randall glared at him. The love-bite I had left on my love that morning was clearly visible from across the room. It was probably visible from across the street; Betty, our maid, had had a coughing-fit this morning that had I suspected not been unconnected to its appearance. She should have been grateful that she had not seen where I had left its partner!

“The Grand Duke, evidently being a fellow of little in the way of good taste, rates your stories for some reason”, my brother said sniffily. “He wants Sherlock here to undertake the investigation rather than the local police. He does not trust them.”

“I suppose that one must make some concessions when it comes to diplomatic matters”, I said generously, resolving that the pest would pay for that slight sooner rather than later. “Tell me what you know.”

“His micro-nation has a country pile between Great and Little Marlow in Buckinghamshire down by the Thames”, Randall said. “The ambassador's name is Mr. Augustus Sedwill, and he is a good friend of the Grand Duke worse luck. Mr. Sedwill is married with four children, and his elder son Jacob is the one who was killed. That leaves one other son and the two daughters.”

I just looked at him. He fidgeted uneasily.

“What?” he said testily.

“The Sherlock Patented What Are You Not Saying This Time Detector”, John said smugly. “You might as well come clean.”

Randall scowled but gave in.

“That was why I had to dash over here at this ungodly hour”, he grumbled. “As if this mess was not bad enough, it turns out that the wife is a 'friend' of Tum-Tum.”

I smiled at the familiar nickname for the Prince of Wales, a wastrel of a fellow then some fifty-five years of age and still little more than a cipher. It was the common (and probably correct) opinion at the time that the Queen held him at least partly responsibly for the death of his father whom she was still mourning then over three decades after his passing. While in what would turn out to be his last illness the hard-working Prince Albert had had to visit his son in Cambridge to reprimand him for his behaviour and had worsened upon his return to London, eventually dying. His widow still allowed their son no part in her government of her Empire despite her being well into her seventies. I could understand her feelings but felt that it was ultimately an unwise act on her part. Barring an unlikely turn of events Tum-Tum – I meant the Prince of Wales – would be king one day, and then what?

“A 'friend'”, I said, not bothering to suppress a smile as a particularly unsubtle person sat not far away made loud kissing noises. Randall scowled.

“You know what I mean!” he snapped. “Some so-called gentlemen cannot keep it in their trousers these days.”

“I could make a cruel yet accurate remark about pots and kettles there”, I said, enjoying his wince perhaps a little too much. “But I shall refrain – _for now_. Tell me about the dead boy.”

“Master Jacob Sedwill, aged twelve”, he said, clearly glad to be getting on with the conversation. “The elder of the two boys; his brother Esau is a year younger. Both attend – attended the grammar school in Marlow.”

“Not somewhere more prestigious?” I asked, surprised. Visiting diplomats were usually guaranteed to get their offspring into somewhere like Eton or Harrow, what with their connections.

Randall shook his head.

“They have an excellent reputation since they acquired a new headmaster four years back, one Mr. Stephen Fearing”, he said. “Aptly named from what I hear; he takes no nonsense from anyone and some ten boys were expelled in his first term. As you know the Chilterns is positively crawling with foreigners and their country piles and they rank the place alongside the likes of Harrow and Eton. The school was more than doubly over-subscribed last year partly because Mr. Fearing refused to expand it despite several offers from prospective parents of the necessary money. Both boys were described as average; the victim was a bit of a dreamer but he worked when he was told. He died at Prince Rupert's Farm next to Little Marlow village...”

“Why is it called that?” John cut in. Randall scowled.

“I do not see how that is important”, he said loftily.

“All facts have the potential to be important”, I said firmly. “Do you know?”

“Only because the younger boy mentioned it in his statement”, Randall said, clearly annoyed that John had made a contribution to things. “His brother was into history and Prince Rupert is supposed to have shot the weathercock off the top of the village church from there during his march on London during the Civil Wars. The late Master Jacob Sedwill had found a bullet or cannon-ball or some such thing and had been poking around the farm hoping to find more.”

I frowned at that.

“Did the owners not mind?” I asked. “People are generally averse to young boys wandering around their property.”

“The farm owner is a brute of a fellow called Mr. Henry Norris”, Randall said. “He admitted that he had shot at people wandering around the place – there's a public right of way along the river by the edge of his property – but the one time he says he saw the boy there he just yelled at him and he ran off. He _says_.”

“The public opprobrium from shooting anywhere near a child would be far greater than from doing it around a grown man”, I observed. “How was the body found?”

My brother winced. 

“The farmer runs all his equipment on the last day of March each year so he can do any repairs well before he needs to use them”, he said. “I thought that a bit fishy but I had my men ask around the other farmers in the area and they all do it as well. He ran the threshing-machine for a bit and from what came out....”

He stopped, looking pale. We could all see what he had not said. Thankfully dinner was still some distance away.

“How could they recognize him from.... that?” John wondered.

“As you can guess there was no body to recognize”, Randall said sourly. “Two things were left though; the remains of his wallet which he had not long been given and was an unusual red leather. Also his pocket-watch which survived, although it was badly damaged. It had a personal engraving in it.”

I wondered at that. Boys that age did not usually carry pocket-watches, and why take it on a trip to a farm? Unless..... oh. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear.

“This is terrible”, I said heavily.

“Why?” John asked. “Apart from the death, of course.”

“Because of the river.”

They both looked at me in confusion. I sighed heavily.

“If the killer had wanted merely to end the poor boy's life”, I said, “they could have drowned him in the Thames which must be at the most a mile away. That would have left no evidence, may have been taken as an accident, and the body may even have drifted some way downstream making the investigation even more difficult. But this way...”

“There will be one huge diplomatic stink!” Randall finished sourly. “The Caronians will feel, damn unreasonably, that we were somehow to blame for 'allowing' it to happen on British soil.”

“Who would gain from that?” John protested. “They can hardly expect our Nation to come to their aid when they are slap bang in the middle of the Continent!”

“But the Russians do border them”, I said, “and there is a possibility that the Bear may be our ally when this long-threatened war does finally break out. Their interest in the Balkans is legion, there is a narrow but loud Slavic majority in Caronia, and there are precious few ways through the Carpathian Mountains to get troops southwards otherwise. Or there is the possibility that since the German Emperor is the Caronian king's overlord he himself may use it either as a pretext even if only for some belligerent posturing and the hope of some concessions from us to make him go away.”

“Our government would not do that, surely?” John asked.

“They may”, Randall said. “Rosebery's lot may have won a decent majority at the last election but there are a whole lot of potential problems bubbling around the world that could cause them all sorts of problems. A warmongering Kaiser Wilhelm is an added worry that they do not need. Also that Falklands mess made them look very bad.”

If he was hoping for any sympathy over that, he was on a lost cause. He scowled at me when he very clearly saw that.

“I think that we shall need to visit the scene of the crime”, I said. “John and I will go today, Randall.”

My brother looked surprise at my acquiescence and stared at me suspiciously. Actually I was quite prepared to tackle this matter for our Nation particularly as I had a horrible feeling as to what the actual solution would most likely be, but making him fretful was always an added bonus. Besides, the Great Western Railway's first-class coaches were still non-corridor ones which would be... useful.

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It was only a short trip to Paddington Station whence we secured a train for Maidenhead, the junction for Marlow. Randall had provided us with a sketch map of the place and I could see that the farm, ambassador's house and the school were all fairly close together between the two Marlows, Great and Little. I smiled at my love as we reached our first-class compartment.

“Only a slow train”, I said. “It will be a rather rough ride.”

“Why?” he asked curiously. “The Great Western is a fairly good railway, and these coaches are only a few years old as they cannot have been built before the conversion five years back.”

I gave him a look. I perhaps should not have enjoyed making him shudder like that but... oh well.

“I meant rough for you!” I growled. _“All aboard!”_

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I silently thanked the owners of 'That Shop' in Baker Street who had sold me the most ingenious little device which wedged a compartment's doors locked from the inside much more effectively than any coin. Despite the many stops the train made – each of which had the man impaled on my cock whining in what I hoped was ecstasy – we could not be disturbed short of someone breaking the door down.

“Eyes and 'Arlin'ton!” came a yell from outside.

“Only six more stops then we are at Maidenhead”, I said calmly while jerking my lover's cock which was once more threatening to break through its restrictive cock-ring. “I do hope that I can find some way to keep myself entertained.”

“God I love you so much!” he gasped. “Just let me come!”

I flicked a catch on the side of the cock-ring and it fell to the floor. I felt his body tense and then he fairly erupted, his spend splattering across the floor and chair right up to the polished glass mirror on the opposite wall. Impressive.

“One”, I muttered quietly.

A delicious shudder ran through his beautiful body.

“Oh no!” he cried.

“But yes!” I hissed, grabbing him firmly round the base of his cock and finally beginning to thrust into him in earnest. He was already getting hard again, and we still had plenty of time.”

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We missed the train to Marlow. We were not late – this was the Great Western, after all – but John actually cried when he realized that he would have to manage the footbridge to cross to the branch platform, so I seated him (carefully) on a bench and went to get him a drink. Thankfully the station shop also sold bars of chocolate and he accepted those and the coffee that I gave him as if they were his last meal on earth, looking at me as if he could not believe what I had just put him through.

Yes, I was aware that there was a journey home as well. But like back in North Elmham, if this case turned out as I expected then I very much doubted that either of us would be in the mood for anything later. Because like John, the trouble with my nearly always fearing the worst was that it ensured that I was nearly always right.

Unhappily this time I was to be proven all too right.

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John had his gun ready (even if he was still limping slightly) as we approached Prince Rupert's Farm a short time later. I too was wary about the sort of landowner who shot first and asked questions later, but Fortune smiled on us here at least. A young fellow of barely twenty-years of age was repairing the gate leading up to the place and he introduced himself as the owner's son Jason.

“You were right to be wary of Father”, he said. “He's been even more on edge since the killing, especially with these damn journalists running all over the place.”

“I do not expect anyone round here to be able to help much”, I conceded, silently thinking that a few journalists being shot at might not be so bad a thing, “but I wondered if anyone had seen the boy before that fateful day? I am led to understand that his interest in history had him poking around the place.”

The young fellow scratched his head.

“Father said that when he did come he always kept well clear”, he said. “I only ever saw him myself the once, last December.”

I looked hard at him. Years of experience were telling me that there was more. He sighed.

“He asked about which equipment was dangerous”, the fellow admitted. “I mentioned to him that Father always tested everything after winter, on the last day of March. When the police came.....”

I could see the reason for his embarrassment.

“I am sure that if that fact needs to come out, I can make it appear to come from an anonymous source”, I said to his evident relief. “I do not suppose that you happen to remember the date of the boy's visit?”

“The twelfth.”

I looked at him in surprise. He seemed so sure of that.

“Yes, I'm hopeless with dates”, he grinned. “But it was the same day my sister Jessie came back from visiting our batty grandmother up in Scotland; she'd just seen some presentation on this new telegraph that can transmit voices so they say, and she was full of it. She's mad for all this new technology.”

“The boy always kept a distance from the buildings?” I asked.

“Apart from that time we talked, yes sir.”

“Thank you for your time”, I said handing him a coin. “You have been most helpful.”

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“Had he?” John asked as we walked towards the ambassador's house. “All we know is that the victim knew about the machine that caused his death. So what?”

“I rather fear that we will find the next piece of the jigsaw at the palatial abode ahead”, I said gesturing to a large grey building on a slight rise with the Thames flowing alongside it. It seemed strange to think that the pristine river here was the dirty (though not so much as it had been) river that was London's lifeblood less than an hour's train ride away. 

I kept a straight face as John stepped on an uneven bit of ground and yelped in pain.

“Shut up!” he grumbled.

Apparently not that straight a face. Oh well.

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At the ambassador's house we were introduced to Mrs. Henrietta-Jane Sedwill, an attractive young lady who had to have been at least ten years her husband's junior. Then again she had caught the eye of the heir to the British throne who.... ugh! Whatever happened to respecting the sanctity of another man's marriage? If she had tried anything with my beloved John then she would have been seeing the Thames from her own uniquely low angle soon afterwards, pollution concerns be damned!

Introductions were effected and I got straight to the point.

“I believe that I can see how and why this poor boy was killed”, I said. “I am not yet certain however, and as part of my investigations will require a search of your son’s room.”

Fortunately she was too busy simpering at me to notice my slight evasion.

“Why do you need to do that?” she asked.

“Because it is my belief that there may be something of note there”, I said. “May we have your permission to go up and search, his room as well as his brother's as the item may have been moved there.”

“Not my daughters' rooms?” she asked. I shook my head.

“I am certain that they have no part in this”, I said firmly. “But one must be thorough. One never knows what will come up when one looks... under the bedclothes, as they say.”

She clearly caught my reference to her own very public dalliance and reddened.

“Augustus said that you would be investigating this horrible business for him, so I am sure that he would permit it”, she said. “I shall have a servant show you up.”

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“I do not see why you lied to her”, John said as we left the house. “What relevance does a curl of fake hair have to do with a boy dying in such a horrible way?”

I had indeed found something in the boys' rooms and had asked him to conceal samples from what we had found in his doctor's bag before apologizing to the lady and telling her that we had found nothing. 

“Because I fear the wit of that lady”, I said, “and I think that if she saw what we had found she might put two and two together and realize what had really happened down on the farm. Although she will likely find out soon enough, when we shall see if her poor judgement matches her abject lack of morals. If our last port of call yields what I expect, then poor Randall will have a fit over how to clear up this particular mess!”

“That would be terrible”, John said flatly.

His sympathetic bedside manner definitely needed work.

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Mr. Stephen Fearing, headmaster of St. Ethelwold's, was everything I had expected of him from his and his school's reputation, a dark-haired gentleman in his early forties who very clearly demanded Respect. The school itself was spotless and the boys all polite and well-behaved; I frankly wondered what he was feeding them. We all sat down and I hesitated before speaking.

“I must start by asking a somewhat unusual question”, I said. “Have any boys left your school as of late?”

The headmaster looked at me uncertainly but nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “As I am sure you gentleman are aware there is something of a waiting-list to get into this school, and since I refuse to expand, word quickly gets around when there is an extra space.”

“The key question”, I said. “Who was the most recent departure?”

He frowned.

“That is not as easy to say as you might think”, he said. “Last week I had to expel Curtis Secundus for bullying, which was tiresome as I had warned his parents beforehand yet they had done nothing. It is the old story of a bad apple not falling far from a bad tree, I am afraid. I expected them to wish to take his elder brother out as well but although they did so, they asked that the decision only be formalized at the end of term which is not far off. They both left last week but technically both are still on the school register.”

“Of course you have had many requests for their places already”, I smiled. “Who was the most recent actual departure?”

“MacInnes. His father died last month and there was some doubt as to who would step in as his guardian, although fortunately as he was boarded here with all fees paid that was not an immediate issue. Last week his grandfather assumed responsibility and he asked that the boy to come live with him in Scotland. He has a sizeable estate in the Far North – Caithness, I think – and since he has no other close family he wishes to raise the boy as his heir. I was sorry to lose him; he was quiet but a hard worker.”

I could feel my heart sinking. This was getting steadily worse.

“When did Master MacInnes depart?” I asked.

“Last Friday, four days before poor Sedwill Primus met his end.”

I winced.

“What is it?” John asked anxiously.

“I am afraid that what they call the 'worst case scenario' is indeed what has happened in this instance”, I said. “Sir, where is the nearest place from which I can send a telegram?”

“There is a small post-office in the road leading up to the school from the town”, the headmaster said, frowning. “Mr. Holmes, what has happened?”

“Something which will I fear affect everyone, even your illustrious school”, I said heavily. “Is there somewhere that the doctor and I might retire to in order to compose some messages? Once I have done that and sent what needs to be sent, I promise that I will return and explain all.”

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There were times when I wondered at the modern telegraphic network, especially if that young farmer had been right and we might indeed talk over the wires one day. Even though one of the messages I sent had to travel a round trip of over a thousand miles, we still got a reply back barely two hours later; clearly the recipients had grasped the urgency of the situation and had responded with alacrity. Ironically the one which had to traverse only a mile or so came back a few minutes later. 

For once, it was painful to have been proven right.

We returned to the office of the headmaster and, as I had fully expected, there was a young boy sitting just outside. Mr. Fearing admitted us.

“A most curious development”, he said. “Sedwill Secundus, the younger brother of the victim, has just come to my office...”

I held up my hand to stop him.

“He has told you that he encountered a foreign-looking gentleman around the school grounds on the day of the killing, and that the fellow had black curly hair with a straggly beard”, I said.

He stared at me in astonishment. So did John.

“Was the accent Russian or German?” I asked.

“German, he thought”, the headmaster said, recovering. “Mr. Holmes, what is going on here?”

“Murder most foul”, I said heavily. “You had better have the boy brought back in. I am afraid that this will not be pretty.”

Mr. Fearing looked at me uncertainly but rang for his secretary, who soon ushered in the boy that we had just passed. He was a wiry-looking young blond lad of about eleven years of age, who looked decidedly worried. I gestured for him to stand to the side of the desk and stared at him for a time.

“Master Esau Sedwill”, I said at last. “Tell me something. What is it like to murder a boy of your own age in cold blood?”

The boy stared at me in horror, gasping for breath.

“Mr. Holmes!” the headmaster protested.

“The game is up”, I said firmly. “You and your brother planned this vile scheme once you learned of your fellow schoolboy's unexpected inheritance. Schools are as gossip-prone as anywhere; you only came forward with the story about the fake German visitor today because you learned of my presence here, although you had long prepared it as a contingency.”

“I didn't...” the boy began.

“You had learned that young MacInnes's grandfather had not seen him in years and realized that he would likely not recognize him”, I said. “Your plan was simple enough. Your elder brother would masquerade as MacInnes and go to Scotland where he would soon inherit a huge estate and become very rich, while you would stay here and inherit your father's wealth.”

I waved one of the telegrams that I had received at him.

“This is from the Caithness Constabulary”, I said harshly, noting his his face dropped even further at the mention of that place. “They have visited Mr. MacInnes’s estate just outside the town of Wick and have taken the boy masquerading as Master Stuart MacInnes into custody. I would wager a guinea that when he is brought back to Buckinghamshire, he will turn out to be none other than Master Jacob Sedwill, your elder brother.”

“But Mr. Holmes”, the headmaster objected, “what happened to young MacInnes....”

He trailed off and turned deathly pale, putting his hand across his mouth. Poor fellow, he had got it. So from his white face had John.

“Master MacInnes had to die for the subterfuge to work”, I said quietly. “The two of you intercepted him shortly after he had left the school and held him somewhere until you were ready to deliver the final blow. You murdered him and then placed his body in that threshing-machine, knowing from a recent visit there that the farmer always ran it on the last day of March to see if it was working, and all it cost you that time was a pocket-watch and a wallet by which he would be identified as your elder brother.”

The boy's eyes widened in terror.

“Wh... what do you mean, 'that time'?” he quavered.

I smiled darkly.

“Master Sedwill, you and your equally vile brother now have a choice”, I said slowly. “The most important choice that you have thus far made in your short, evil lives. An English jury may or may not choose to sentence you to many decades in a gaol system which, I am sure you must know, is rarely a good place for boys of your _tender_ age. I am sure that your father can afford a good lawyer who would doubtless adopt the ploy of playing you off against each other, so a conviction might well be avoided on the grounds of twelve good men and true being unsure as to which of you was the more guilty. However I am equally sure that they would still convict on a lesser charge that would seal you inside for well over a decade, where criminals do not take kindly to child-killers of any age and the protection of your parents is many, many miles away. Or...”

I stopped. He looked at me in abject terror. Good.

“Or”, I said, “your father could be unwise enough to try to assert his diplomatic immunity in an attempt to have you removed back to Caronia. You are heartless and soulless, but clearly not brainless, so let me spell it out for you. If you accept trial by twelve good men and true, I will accept their decision whatever it may be. But if you try to avoid facing up to your foul and unspeakable actions..... _you will not live to see Caronia!”_

“You... you cannot kill me!” the boy whined. “Mr. Fearing, help!”

“I do not know you”, the headmaster said coldly. “As far as I am concerned you were expelled from this school the moment I saw you for what you are, a cold and calculating murderer. Whatever Mr. Holmes chooses to do as regards justice is perfectly acceptable as far as I am concerned.”

We all looked at the sweating boy. The clock in the corner ticked on.

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John held me all the way back to London. It was not cuddling. It was John being John, when I needed him most.

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Postscriptum: Mr. Sedwill's father, although willing enough to let his evil sons face up to their actions, foolishly yielded to their and their mother's beseechings and did indeed assert his diplomatic immunity in an attempt to protect them. The British government asked Grand Duke Gustav to appoint a new ambassador or face the public expulsion of the old one, to which 'request' he duly obliged. 

A few days later I was not at all surprised to find spread across the entire front page of the 'Times' of a shock double murder at Maidenhead Railway Station in Berkshire. Both the ambassador of Caronia's sons had been shot dead. I made a mental note to send an extra-large box of chocolates round to Mrs. Kyndley, who had been so shocked at the whole affair that she had waived her normal charges for the 'direct removal' of two blemishes on the human race.

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	7. Interlude: A Modern Lieutenant-General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. For a young soldier, relatives are sometimes.... ugh!.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The narrator is the second-born son of Lieutenant-General Carlyon Holmes, Sherlock's nephew and some twenty-seven years of age at the time. As a lieutenant he was seven ranks below his father, despite the similar-sounding title.

_[Narration by Lieutenant Charles Holmes]_

Look, I know that men are sometimes.... men, but damnation, this whole mess should never have..... I mean, how had we ended up.... ugh!

I could I suppose have gone to my Uncle Sherlock but I knew that he was not long back from some sort of Rest Cure and did not need this on top of all his other problems. Instead I decided to approach my cousin (sort of cousin; we were not actually blood-related) Lucifer 'Luke' Garrick. He worked for the government and he had a friend of his who..... I knew that sort of things went on in the barracks but I really, _really_ did not want to think about it! Especially given that this involved my own damn father, the terror of the Army Lieutenant-General Carlyon Holmes!

Luckily my sort of cousin was in and alone, so I was able to explain things to him. It was a bit creepy in that physically he was very like Father (he was just three months younger), but I hoped that he would be able to suggest something.

“It was terrible timing”, I said with a sigh. “Father was not due back but he managed to catch an earlier train, and walked in just as Danny was helping Mother out of the pool. The most feared man in the British Army just blushed, stuttered, then walked into the door-frame! It was embarrassing!”

“How is your mother?” Luke asked carefully.

“Still losing ground, as we know she will”, I sighed. “It cannot be long now; the doctors say a year at best. Worst of all, she saw the look that Father gave Danny!”

“It is perhaps well that she took to him”, Luke said. “She can be... difficult with some people, although I suppose when you have people tiptoeing around you twenty-four hours a day, someone who says it like it is can be a refreshing change. And your father., for all that he is a wonderful human being, is not the sort to cope well with feelings.”

“I do not see this ending well”, I sighed. “I challenged Danny on it of course and he said that he would never do anything to approach Father, but the way that he said it....”

“Means that he has thought about it”, he said, nodding. “Once your mother has passed, then what? Danny will likely leave and that will be that. Have you spoken to her about it?”

“No”, I said. “And coward that I am, I really do not want to. Like Father, I suppose.”

“You should”, he said. “Sherlock told me once of someone he helped because the fellow loved someone and did not have those feelings returned, yet loved them enough to still want them to be happy. I cannot think that Anne would wish Carl to be miserable once she is gone.”

“I will try to pluck up courage, then”, I said. “I saw your bag at the door; were you off out?”

He blushed.

“Benji is joining me at my country place”, he said. “We are having a long weekend of.... relaxing.”

I gave him such a look! And the bastard had the brass neck to snigger at me. Family!

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	8. Case 237: The Adventure Of The Irregular Cartwright ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherlock delves into the world of mathematics to find out if someone he knows has been cheated out of something that should rightfully have been his. When he finds out that they indeed have been, justice is soon rendered on the guilty.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Although there were several potential cases arising from the famed Baker Street Irregulars, the bunch of small boys who carried messages and sometimes undertook tasks for Sherlock, most of these were small if not inconsequential while this one larger matter could not be published at the time, because the institution involved was innocent of any blame but would have been tarnished by associated with the criminal if the story had come out. So I am making these notes for possible future publication, just in case.

Master Cartwright Jones was sixteen years old and one of two 'commanders' of the Irregulars which meant that he was one of those allowed into the house by Mrs. Malone, who generally took a dim view of the boys. He was a small and scruffy boy who looked more eleven than sixteen, but he was bright, determined and observant, and I knew that Sherlock both esteemed him and hoped to push him to better things one day. His mother had passed and his feckless father drank what little money he himself earned, but fortunately his elder brother Lewis was eighteen and working in a local grocer's shop, and had assumed control of things at home. Sherlock had said that this Lewis was even smarter but always thought poorly of himself, despite his running a household at such a tender age.

It all began when Cartwright came to our rooms one day and asked if he might speak with us both (unlike so many of our clients he always included me in his address, which further raised my opinion of him). It was unusual for any of the boys to come without being sent for, and I wondered what was afoot.

“I was wondering if you gentlemen might be able to solve a bit of a mystery, sirs”, he began. “It's my brother Lou.”

“He is not in any trouble?” Sherlock asked.

The boy frowned for some reason.

“He's not right”, he said. “I mean, he's a genius and I know none of them are, but until last Friday he was always sat at the table any spare time he had, doing those weird maths problems of his. Now he's suddenly stopped. It's not like him at all, sirs.”

“Has his mood changed at all?” Sherlock asked.

“He's down over something, hard though it is to tell with him”, Cartwright said. “Smiling is something that happens to other folks as far as he's concerned! But it feels wrong, and I don't like it.”

“Did anything particular happen last Friday?” Sherlock asked.

“Only the usual”, the boy said. “Milk delivered, I went out for a loaf of bread, Mr. Marden came round for the rent or at least his son Tony did. I think it was the evening paper myself. He read that when he brought it home from work; he was fine before then but he was off by the time we had supper.”

“There are many articles in the newspaper”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “We have no easy way of knowing which was the one that affected him.”

“It had to be on the front page, sirs”, the boy said helpfully. “That's all he had time to read before supper; he hadn't opened the paper.”

“That is most helpful, Cartwright”, Sherlock smiled. “John, can you go and ask Mr. Hudson for last Friday's 'Times'? We shall investigate this case.”

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Unfortunately there had been no major story that particular Friday so there was a total of some nineteen stories which were covered on the front page or mentioned for further coverage on the inside pages. 

“John”, my friend said slowly, “who do we know in the world of mathematics?”

“No-one that I can think of”, I said. “It is a small and exclusive world. Why?”

He pointed to a small article in the bottom left-hand corner of the newspaper. It informed the no doubt thrilled readers that some complex mathematical theorem had been broken. Quite how that had made the front page was a mystery, unless the editor of the newspaper was himself a mathematician. Or it had been an exceptionally slow news day.

“Be still my beating heart!” I muttered.

“We know that young Lewis is into mathematics”, he said. “Perhaps he was working on this theorem himself. I shall contact Miss St. Leger and ask which of her contacts she would recommend as a translator.”

“A translator of what?” I asked.

“Mathematics into English!” he grinned.

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The following day one Mr. Stephen Tranter came to 221B. He was an earnest-looking fellow in his forties; bespectacled, dark-haired and smartly-attired. I did not think that he looked much of a mathematician but then I never thought a murderer looked like a murderer right until some resident bacon-stealer in the vicinity said that they were!

“Welcome, sir”, Sherlock said, guiding our visitor to the fireside chair and giving me a sharp look for some reason. “We wondered if someone of your expertise might be able to explain the substance of this article, in language that laymen like us could understand.”

Mr. Tranter nodded, sipped his drink then took and read the article.

“The Stavanger Theorem”, he said. “Yes, I too read that it had been broken.”

He put his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“Do you remember the Rosetta Stone, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said. That famous lump of rock, inscribed with the same text in hieroglyphs, demotics and Ancient Greek, had been discovered around the start of the century and when its importance had been realized it had provided the key to understanding the hitherto impenetrable language of the Ancient Egyptians as it had the same message in their hieroglyphic and hieratic writing systems as well as that of Ancient Greek.

“Imagine, if you will, that it was suddenly proven to be a forgery”, he said. “A whole lattice of knowledge and assumed facts would collapse overnight. That is pretty much what happened with the Stavanger Theorem, albeit on a somewhat smaller scale. Without going into detail which I am sure would bore you as much as it does my students, it was a core plank in the understanding of one particular field of geometry. People suspected that it might be erroneous ever since two Norwegian mathematicians advanced it nearly fifty years back, but recently some lucky blighter who is not even a professional mathematician stumbled across the disproof.”

“Why do you call him lucky?” I asked.

“Because he will be set for life!” Mr. Tranter said. “He will forever be known as The Man Who Broke Stavanger's. Speech invitations, dinners – he will get the whole lot!”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you happen to know this person?” he asked eventually.

“As I said, he is an amateur”, Mr. Tranter said, “although unlike rather too many in my professions I do not knock such as he. Much of what we do is, I will admit, pure luck; an amateur is not that much less likely to stumble across a nugget like this as someone like me, although I do have more time to devote to it than they do. My fellow professors are up in arms of course, and there is much talk about how unfair it all is. My good lady wife says that my colleagues gossip more than the ladies down her church club, which I would object to except that working as I do in a fact-based field I have to admit that she is right. Even it if annoys me so when she smirks at that fact.”

“It is indeed annoying when someone smirks too much”, I agreed.

Sherlock gave me a sharp look. The room suddenly seemed rather cold for some reason.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tranter”, he said passing our guest an envelope which must have contained a note. “You have been most informative.”

The mathematician bowed and left. Sherlock fixed me with another look.

“So you find that annoying?” he said darkly. “Let us see what else you can find in the next few hours.....”

I was already racing to my bedroom.

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Every. Damn. One!

That horny bastard went through each of the twelve times-tables from one to twelve, fucking me as he counted. And just when I thought that he could not get any worse he used his inhuman strength to haul me to his chest, then stood up and marched around the room still doing his damn mathematics. Never before had I been so glad to hear that twelve times twelve was one hundred and forty-four!

“One thirteen is thirteen.....”

Lord help me!

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Twenty! The horny bastard went all the way up to twenty! All right, there was cooling unguent afterwards but even so I could not sit down for the whole damn evening, He was terrible!

Thank God that he was all mine!

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What with my insides having been mathematically shredded the Cartwright case had temporarily slipped my mind (along with other things like my name and how to manage those tricky word things!). Two days later however Sherlock suddenly turned to me after breakfast (thankfully it had been an only half my bacon day for once).

“Do you have to go into the surgery today?” he asked.

I had been on call most days lately as there had been a nasty flu bug going round, which almost every doctor at my workplace seemed to have caught. 

“No, but I said that they might call me in if Will does not fell well enough”, I said. “He came back yesterday bit still looked poorly; you know how he does not like taking time off.”

“I have someone due shortly”, he said. “I would like you to not take notes until he is gone. He will not be here long.”

I wondered at that but did not have long to dwell on it as apparently our guest was early, as was denoted by Betty bringing their card up. I waited in my usual place by the table until there was a knock at the door.

“Come!” Sherlock called sharply.

A young fellow of about forty-five years of age entered. He was besuited and had that irritating air of someone who is making his way in the world and wants everyone to know that fact. He looked disdainfully first at Sherlock then at me, before crossing to the fireside chair and taking a seat.”

“I do hope that this is important, sir”, he said frostily. “I have a business to run.”

“Be not concerned”, Sherlock smiled. “That will not be a problem for much longer.”

The fellow looked at him curiously

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“John, meet Mr. Anselm Marden”, Sherlock said. “Landlord to our good friend Cartwright's family. _For now.”_

“You are wasting my time, sir”, Mr. Marden said coldly. “I think that I shall leave.”

“Your son's handwriting gave him away.”

I stared at him. That last sentence seemed to have made no sense at all, and even our visitor looked nonplussed by it.

“I do not follow”, he said.

“Not long ago your son Anthony who is a part-time mathematician called round to collect the rent from my friend Cartwright's family”, Sherlock said. “While he was there he saw the notes that my friend's brother had been making on a mathematical theorem that he had been looking into. He quickly realized that the genius fellow had made one of the most important discoveries in mathematics – _so he stole it!”_

“I take it that you have proof of this insane assertion?” Mr. Marden sniffed.

“No.”

That clearly surprised our guest as much as it did me.

“Then why am I here?” Mr. Marden asked.

“Something that I am sure even the Good Lord wonders at”, Sherlock smiled. “Come to the window if you will, sir.”

Mr. Marden stared at him for a moment but complied.

“I would point out to you the cab down there, and the three rather large and very muscular gentleman standing next to it”, Sherlock said, his voice suddenly underlain with menace. “If you leave this place without pledging to do _exactly_ what I tell you, or if you foolishly try to renege on the terms of the agreement that you are about to accept, they will seize you now or later and take you somewhere. You, to use a colloquialism, shafted poor Mr. Lewis Jones by stealing his discovery. They are three of the biggest, roughest molly-men in London. They, _not_ to use a colloquialism, will shaft _you!”_

Our visitor went deathly pale.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“On the table by the doctor are two documents”, Sherlock said. “The first informs the professors to whom you handed the stolen proof of your and your son's foul deeds, and the second transfers ownership of Cartwright's house to his brother as recompense. I am of course aware that you might sign and leave this place, then try to go back on your word – but those men will be watching, sir. And watching not just you.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, trembling now.

“Your son committed the original foul deed, much as you encouraged him”, Sherlock said. “He must therefore share any punishment.”

“Damnation man, he is married!”

“I know. I do not care. Sign please.”

The fellow gave him a hate-filled glare but stumbled across to make his mark on the papers before fleeing.

“Do you think that he will try to wriggle out of it?” I asked.

Sherlock looked down into the street, clearly waiting for our unwelcome guest to emerge.

“I was sure of it”, he said. “That is why Benji, Drake and Steve have just taken him somewhere 'for a talk' while we circulate this admission of guilt around the world of mathematics.”

He really was a bastard at times. But he was my bastard!

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Postscriptum: Mr. Marten did not emerge for another three days, by which time both he and his son had been exposed for the villains that they had been. Both fled the country within the week, heading for South America I think, and were never heard from again. Sherlock arranged with Cartwright's brother to keep news of their new status as homeowners from his drunken father, and the young man was able to deposit his rent in a bank account rather than see it disappear into the coffers of either the Dog & Duck or the Red Lion. Indeed the case proved just the boost that Mr. Lewis Jones needed, and as 'The Man Who Broke Stavanger's' he accepted a scholarship studying mathematics at Oxford University where he did very well for himself. His brother also prospered, and Sherlock was able to obtain a place for him at the university in London studying economics, after which he rose to become a prominent London businessman. Both, I am proud to say, took care to look after their former friends from the Irregulars. 

Sometimes Mankind got it right.

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	9. Case 238: The Adventure Of The Extra Stamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. John often found it annoying when people remarked that so many of Sherlock's cases started from the smallest of things. Few could have been smaller than this one though – a postage stamp!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was totally John's fault that I did not recognize the name brought up to us by the maid that day. Not fifteen minutes before I had been happily finishing my dinner – yes it was bacon, not as some smart-arsed doctor called it 'bacon-again'! – when he had given me the full force of those sparkling hazel eyes of his and said that he bet he could distract me before I was done. I had looked at him in disbelief. I mean, come on. Bacon!

I had underestimated the man. He quickly got under the table, pulled down my trousers and was sucking me off like his life depended on it. I had always thought that bacon made me feel so happy but this was.... this was..... oh my Lord!

I was sat on the couch recovering ( _not_ , as someone claimed, gasping for breath) when John came over from the door bringing the rest of my (and his) bacon.

“Mrs. D'Arcy is here to see us!” he said, frowning.

I stared at him in bewilderment. Clearly the name was supposed to mean something to me but my brain was still not quite fully functional yet. It was still working on more important matters, such as bacon.

“Sergeant Baldur's wife”, he reminded me. 

I blinked. I had quite forgotten that D'Arcy was the sergeant's surname as he had never used it in his time with us. His wife was now a patient of John's as were all the sergeant's family; indeed my friend had been particularly busy of late because after an outbreak of some bug at the surgery, our good friend Sir Peter Greenwood was away in Scotland for a month with his family and John was standing in for him. He was I knew finding it tiring working full-time again but I had arranged for at least some of the baronet's patients to be dealt with by locums (loci?). 

Although he himself would have been mortified had we raised the subject with him personally, the tall and _handsome_ (which adjective 'someone' did not like me using in his presence) Sergeant Baldur was like me distantly descended from royalty, coincidentally another mistress of King Charles the Second like my own ancestor Lady Jane Hawke; we were, I had once worked out, sixth cousins twice removed. The sergeant's own lineage had descended to his grandfather the wonderfully-named but most unpleasant Mr. Palliser D'Arcy who had been the one to disown his grandson for the heinous crime of joining the Metropolitan Police Service. John also told me that the split had been further widened by the fact that the sergeant had been the only issue of Mr. Palliser's son Mr. Fitzroy D'Arcy's first marriage to a Norwegian lady. Said son, my love had said, had remarried to a shrewish female over from the United States and they had had four further children, all about as bad as she herself was. 

John was getting really catty in his.... central middle age.

“It must be serious”, I said as my love went to ring for the lady's admission and I stared gloomily at my now empty plate. “She is a shy lady, and would normally have gone through the sergeant. Did you not say that she was pregnant again?”

“Three months gone”, he said. “The poor sergeant is worried because little Freya's birth was so difficult, yet she is healthy enough now.”

“Eating her parents out of house and home, he said last time he called”, I smiled. There had been a little unpleasantness with the Metropolitan Police Service trying to not pay the sergeant a bonus a few weeks back and I had had to have Words to make sure that it had happened. Plus a sizeable extra amount for the inconvenience, otherwise there was always the danger that certain newspapers might start inquiring into the nocturnal wanderings of certain prominent married police officers of some fifty-seven years of age. Down a certain road near St. Paul's, which was barely a stone's throw from where a certain prominent married police officer of some fifty-seven years of age – possibly even the same one – just chanced to live.

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Mrs. D'Arcy was duly shown in and took a seat. She was a beautiful lady and her face clearly showed that she shared her husband's Scandinavian heritage, although I knew that she was Danish rather than Norwegian. 

“I hope everything marches well with the sergeant's latest new recruit”, I said politely. She smiled at my euphemism

“All is well there”, she said. “But something.... um....”

She broke off and looked appealingly at us. 

“Take your time, Mrs. D'Arcy”, I said reassuringly. “We have had many years of people sitting in that chair and coming out with the strangest things, so I doubt there is much you could say that would surprise us.”

“I think that Bal may be seeing another woman!”

I promptly took my last comment back. The very idea that Sergeant Baldur (whose portrait should by all rights have featured in the dictionary under 'moral rectitude') might be doing any such thing was totally ridiculous, let alone the fact that his wife was expecting their seventh child. It was utterly impossible!

“What on earth could make you think such a thing?” I asked, still trying to get over the shock of her words. She took a deep breath.

“After the dear doctor examined me last week”, she said, “I went home to write to my sister over in Lolland, a small island in the south of the country. She knows how difficult my last birth was and she is a natural worrier, so every month I send her a telegram and then write to her.”

“Why both?” I asked.

“Telegrams are expensive”, she said, “so I always send a short message, something simple like 'all is well'. Then I write at least four full pages to her, often more knowing that it will take some days to reach her as she lives far out into the country and her postal service is oftentimes erratic. We are twins you see, so we are very close.”

She took another deep breath and sipped her sherry.

“We usually keep two or three stamps in the small ash-tray as neither of us smokes, but when I went there to get one they were all gone. I asked Joy, my maid, and she said that Bal had had a number of letters to send off the day before so she presumed that he had used the last of them. However I knew that he always kept one spare stamp in his bedside cabinet upstairs just in case, so I decided to borrow that thinking I could easily buy some myself and replace it. I opened the drawer and... and....”

She shuddered but continued.

“There was a letter from a woman!” she said. “Calling herself 'Sally' and saying how much she.... you know. Then there was the envelope with it – _with an Uxbridge postmark!”_

I winced.

“Posted last week?” I guessed. She nodded.

“What is it?” John asked.

“The sergeant went over to the Uxbridge station last week on a case”, I said. “He had to spend the night there as there were complications.”

My conscience really did not have to put in there that the complications might have been attractive, female ones. But I knew the sergeant; there just had to be another explanation. Perhaps... yes.

“I know that this may seem like a totally irrelevant question”, I said, “but has your husband had any dealings with his own family as of late?”

She was clearly surprised at my question but shook her head.

“They wish for nothing to do with him”, she said firmly. “He has not spoken to them since we were married; they did not even bother to inform him when either his father or grandfather passed, as you are doubtless aware the latter did recently.”

 _Definitely not a loss to humanity in either case_ , I thought not at all cattily. I was becoming as bad as..... John.

“Mrs. D'Arcy”, I said slowly, “it is my belief that your husband is as honest and faithful as he seems. I do not believe that letter. I think that it was planted there. Who might have had access to your bedroom?”

She moved to answer but hesitated.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Bal had the room painted only this month”, she said. “They finished last week. We had had a small problem with the ceiling but he sorted that himself and then decided that the room needed a new coat of paint, so we had three men in to do it. The firm they came from was quite reputable, he said.”

“Yet every man has his price”, I said. “Plus it is quite likely that he would not find that letter before your unfortunate advent, given the mess that some gentlemen are wont to make of their storage arrangements.”

John coughed for some reason. I stared at him suspiciously – that had better not be anything approaching snark or he would regret it – but continued.

“We must also not overlook the servants who had access to it”, I said. “You mentioned a maid. Do you have anyone else?”

“Only the gardener, Peterkin”, she said. “He does not come into the house but Bal does not mind if he takes his elevenses in the conservatory where the chairs are more comfortable. He is a good fellow.”

I thought for a moment.

“Your former maid left recently?” I hazarded. She looked at me in surprise.

“Yes”, she said. “Mary came into a small inheritance from an aunt up in the Lakes, a life-tenancy on a cottage I think, and she had to go there within a month to secure it. I was lucky to get Joy; you know how difficult it is to find good staff these days.”

 _Lucky_ , I thought, remembering Moriarty and his attempts to plant a maid in 221B in order to get at me. This was at last beginning to make sense.

“I shall have to undertake some research into all this”, I said. “Even with my offices it will take some time. Mrs. D'Arcy, I believe that sooner or later there will be a second letter about your husband's alleged actions, purporting to come either from this 'Sally' or some other female, and that again you will 'chance' to find it. When that happens, I wish you to record the circumstances of its discovery then come straight round to us.”

“You are sure that Bal is innocent?” she asked.

“I am absolutely certain!” I said firmly.

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“Are you though?” John asked, once our visitor had gone. “As you said, every man has his price.”

“Not the sergeant”, I said, trying to still the small and annoying voice at the back of my mind that was also wondering just that. “Given how close to home this is, I am going to ask Miss St. Leger for her assistance. I have a feeling that the sergeant's family is involved in this somehow, but I do not yet see how. Then I shall go to the gymnasium and meet Luke.”

John nodded and picked his book up. 

“I will be back after lunch”, I said. “Since I shall be not far from it, I shall visit that nice bakery in Paddington and buy you some of their delicious chocolate fudge squares.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Which you will sit and the table and try to eat while I am doing to you what you did to me this morning.”

I left him still gasping. I was so bad!

_Or I soon would be!_

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Some hours l was possibly smirking a tad more than was seemly, mainly due to the broken shell of a man lying on the couch and letting out the occasional whimper. I had made him wear the Roman costume which had certainly sped my ministrations and he had come three times before the end of his first square. He had eventually had to leave two of the six – _I had made John Watson leave chocolate!_ – and the look of mixed ecstasy and exhaustion on his face was... borderline satisfying.

With another pained moan he eased himself upright and stared woozily at me.

“You are going to kill me through sex one of these days”, he moaned. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I sniggered but generously helped him across what must have seemed a massive distance to the toilet and left the door slightly ajar just in case he collapsed while in there. After a while there was the sound of flushing and a tap running, then silence.

_“Sherlock!”_

I bit back another snigger, but dutifully went and fetched the invalid who glared suspiciously at me as I helped him the five thousand miles back to the couch. Once he was seated and comfortable I sat next to him. There may or may not have been some of that manly embracing thing involved, but certainly none of The Other Thing That Started With The Third Letter Of The Alphabet And Rhymed With Huddling. No matter how suspiciously he looked at me.

“Miss St. Leger was efficient even by her standards”, I said, definitely not smirking at his wrecked state. “I now know the motive for the crime in this case even if I have not yet established the means.”

“What crime?” he asked. “Infidelity?”

I shook my head.

“Sergeant Baldur is as true as he looks”, I said. “His family on the other hand are a bunch of villains; little wonder it was that they did not like his joining the police service. His own blood is behind this foul attempt to destroy his marriage.”

“But why?” he asked. “He was disinherited. There can be no motive, surely?”

“That was what _seemed_ to be the case”, I said. “Fortunately Miss St. Leger has seen this sort of thing before so she knew where to look. Do you remember telling me the story of how the D'Arcys started?”

“Charles the Second, like your own Hawkes”, he said. “I thought that you were only listening to be kind.”

I had been, and I had had to get Miss St. Leger to find it all out for me again. But I loved him too much to tell him that.

“The family history in this case was the clue to the whole thing”, I said side-stepping his observation. “The main land-grant to the family from that prodigious monarch – sadly for England as things turned out, never on the right side of the blanket! – was a huge estate some miles west of the city of Edinburgh. Mostly just poor-quality scrubland so the family did not bother much with it, but it included the boyhood home of the original Fitzroy D'Arcy and he was determined that it would stay in the family one way or the other.”

“And someone is using the other?” he asked.

I nodded.

“That nobleman stipulated in his will that the estate, known as the West Fields, would go to the first of the next generation of D'Arcy's to produce _four_ male heirs”, I said. “Legally it is a form of entail so despite Sergeant Baldur's family disinheriting him they cannot stop him from inheriting it if he has four sons. With young Baldur's arrival two years back he has three.”

“Wait a minute”, John said. “Did he not have an uncle who was older than his awful father?”

“He did”, I said. “An even better name as well, Mr. Argos D'Arcy. But the Fates were it seemed determined to have their way. He had eight children before he died but only three were sons. Two of those, Archimedes and Stentor – clearly lack of historical knowledge was a thing in the family along with the strange taste in names – had five children each but only two in each case were sons. Mr. Stentor D'Arcy died three years back and his brother passed two days into this year, shortly before his grandfather Mr. Palliser.”

My love immediately got it.

“The rules say the fellow inheriting has to be married!” he said, “which is why they are trying to split up poor Sergeant Baldur and his wife. To stop them from getting that land.”

“Not just any land, either”, I said. “In the years since the grant was made, the Scottish capital has expanded right up to the edge of the Fields and is starting to work its way around them. They could be sold to the city for a small fortune.”

“But why has the current owner not done it, then?” John asked. “Come to that, who is it?”

“Only someone with four sons can hold the full ownership of the Fields that is required to sell them”, I explained. “They are currently held in a legal trust.”

“And now they are likely going to the one fellow that they all hate!” John chuckled.

“Provided that we stop their little scheme”, Sherlock said. “Which I intend to do as loudly as possible!”

He looked at me in surprise.

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I was fortunate in having enough contacts within the Metropolitan Police Service to oblige them in assisting me in this matter, although to be far that was part helpfulness and probably a larger part terror at just how much I might tell the newspapers about what I knew about them. I would not have done that unless really provoked, but they did not need to be told that. There is a large degree of truth in that saying about fear keeping many people honest.

A few days later Sergeant Baldur had to once more go over to the Uxbridge police-station as they had somehow made a complete mess of the case he had thought to have sorted. He of course informed his wife and she came to tell us, looking very worried. As I had expected there had been a second letter, hand-delivered to the house and by a not amazing coincidence when her husband had not been there. It was much the same as the first.

I smiled at the lady reassuringly.

“Be of good cheer”, I said. “Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes”, she said looking puzzled, “but surely you cannot think...”

“Let us not be concerned with what I _think_ ” I said firmly. “If all goes well then tomorrow you will _know_ that your husband is as good and true as he seems. Best of all he can be kept in ignorance of this sorry business, or at least the worst part of it.”

“You will tell him something?” she asked.

“I shall not have to”, I said. “He will tell me!”

She looked at me in confusion. So did John, which was so wrong of him. He knew that when he looked so cute and adorable like that our evening in was only going to end one way.

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Oh boy, it did!

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On Sunday I and what was left of John once more decamped to Paddington Station for rails westwards, this time a little branch-line train which stopped at all stations to Uxbridge. John spent the journey telling me all about the role our destination had played in the English Civil War while I imagined him as a Puritanical Roundhead getting seduced by some devious manipulative Cavalier until he was begging for release. 

I wondered if 'That Shop' had had any more costumes in of late. They had said that they could order in for me if I wanted something specific....

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“I am expecting to meet someone here”, I said one we were in the Middlesex town. “I am sorry that we had to leave in such a hurry but Miss St. Leger said her man following our target had wired her that they had taken a cab, which I had not expected. But they will still get here some time after us.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Mrs. D'Arcy's maid, Joy.”

He looked at me as if I were mad!

_”The maid?”_

“Indeed”, I said. “You will see more when she gets here.”

He knew from that that I would say no more and pouted most adorably. I was beginning to suspect he knew full well such a thing made me yearn to take him there and then, and whether or not he got the information he would at last get something out of me. But I was stronger than that.

All right, I was strong enough to wait until the journey back!

We found a decent enough restaurant ('decent' as defined by John; it served chocolate cake) where I wanted to be, and sat down outside. It was a pleasant spring day and the small town was quiet as it was the Sabbath. I guessed that the place was not supposed to be serving food on such a day but no-one seemed to be objecting, least of all someone already on his second slice yet was still giving me a quivering lip as he looked at mine (which I had only ordered for him anyway).

After a little time we saw our quarry alight from a cab in the high street only a short distance away. John frowned.

“How can she afford a cab all the way from the sergeant's house?” he asked. “She is only a maid.”

“Is she?” I smiled. “Watch, my friend.”

He watched. The lady took her bag and disappeared into the ladies' public toilets opposite. A few minutes passed and a flame-haired woman emerged from the block, touching up gloss-red lips so bright that they shone even from where we were. I heard more than one disapproving tut from the ladies around us, and I could understand why. The woman looked like a word I would never dare mention as Mother would surely have come to know of it, save to say that it started with 'S', had one syllable and rhymed with glut.

There were three policemen standing talking to each other a little way along the pavement and I recognized the form and distinctive dark-blond locks of Sergeant Baldur with his back to us, his long hair hanging down almost as untidily as my own persistently defaulted to (I did _try_ to brush it every day, despite what John said!). The woman sauntered up to her target and boldly grabbed the sergeant from behind before pulling him round and into a smothering kiss. Then she screamed and almost dropped him onto the pavement.

It was _not_ Sergeant Baldur!

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It was a short time later and we were in a small interview room in Uxbridge police-station. Sergeant Baldur (the real one) had I knew left the town that evening, blissfully unaware of what had happened. The flame-haired 'Joy' sat opposite us looking defiant.

“You have no reason to hold me here!” she said firmly.

“Assaulting a police officer?” I said mildly. “I have to say that most judges I know would accept that as just cause, especially given as it was done in front of two other officers of the law.”

I had her there and she knew it.

“Who is this?” John asked bewilderedly.

“Joy”, I said calmly. “Or that is one of her names.”

“So clever, aren't you?” she sneered.

I smiled dangerously at her. She shifted uneasily in her seat.

“We are, _Miss Beatrice Joiner_ ”, I said, enjoying the way that her face fell at that. “The courts may look askance at kissing an unwilling police officer on the streets of a Middlesex town, but I think that they will take a much harsher line over a foul attempt to break up a gentleman's marriage.”

“What makes you think some plod's a gentleman?” she sniffed.

I sat back.

“I know all”, I said. “This vile little ramp began last January with the death of one Mr. Palliser D'Arcy. His grandsons, the inspector's half-brothers, saw their chance to seize the West Fields, especially as two of them had two sons already. One of these men – I shall not call them gentlemen for they were clearly none – is Mr. FitzGeorge D'Arcy and his wife Susan is your sister, which was how you were brought in on this vile ramp.”

“My sources revealed that nearly all the sergeant's half-brothers were in some financial difficulty”, I went on. “The death of their rival before he had the chance to inherit the land known as the West Fields” – I caught her flinch at that name although she tried to cover it – “offered a way out. But there was a problem, to wit the prodigious sergeant who with three boys already was quite likely to fulfil the inheritance requirements by producing a fourth son before any of his brethren could so do, especially as he had his next issue on the way.”

“There was however a possible way out. Ironically when one considers the licentiousness of the Stuart age, the rules of the inheritance were such that the beneficiary had to be still married to his wife when son number four was born. If the sergeant's marriage could be broken up then he would be debarred from inheriting and his vile brethren would still have a chance to get the land.”

“I asked the sergeant's wife one thing which pointed me in the right direction, and it concerned _you_ , madam. At the start of the year her then-maid came into a sudden and unexpected inheritance of her own and left, and she came to employ you. You were as they say, the 'plant'; doubtless your employers paid your predecessor off. It was your job to to ensure that when there was another pregnancy, the marriage was ended as soon as possible. You planted that fake letter in your master's bedside cabinet and then hid the spare stamps so your mistress would use the one that she knew was in there. I am sure that if we test the letter for fingerprints we shall find yours, which I doubt you will be able to explain. You also 'sent' the second letter as part of your evil machinations.”

The siren folded her arms and glared at me. She was not the least but sorry for her actions, and I was not the least bit surprised at that.

“Knowing what you had planned I set up this little scene”, I said. “Now you have a choice, madam.”

“What choice?” she said, looking uneasy for the first time.

“You can stand trial for assaulting a police officer, for one thing”, I said, silently blessing that John kept his mouth shit over the obvious flaw in that statement. “Also for aiding and abetting fraud, and the attempted break up of a gentleman's marriage. Altogether you are looking at several years inside even with a good lawyer, which you will not be able to afford.”

“How can you know that?” she demanded. “I might be rolling in it for all you know, Mr. Clever Clogs!”

“You might”, I said, “but I doubt that any of your 'family' who employed you will help you now. Indeed, I am sure that once they become aware of your capture they will be employing a good lawyer themselves to portray them as the innocent gentlemen duped by a greedy siren who wanted to destroy a rich and honourable family for her own evil ends.”

“Nothing honourable about those idiots!” she snorted. 

“Although there is always the danger”, I said silkily, “that your trial _may_ just happen to get presided over by a judge who takes a far, far harsher view of such goings-on. Judge Martin Edwards for example, whose own son was cuckolded most publicly in similar circumstances only last year. If by some terrible, ahem, 'mischance' it somehow transpires that _he_ gets allocated your trial, then I doubt that even a good breakfast before sentencing would get you any change out of a decade!”

She had gone pale. Good.

“You got any options?” she snapped.

“By another of those strange coincidences there is a newspaper journalist visiting this police-station”, I said. “Now, if you were to talk to him and portray your own half of the story _before_ your employers can get theirs out – well, we would be talking social disgrace all round but at least it might put you in a stronger position. And ‘perhaps’ you might then not be quite so likely to get the 'wrong' judge.”

She scowled at me; she knew quite well that I had her. Good again.

“Get him in here then”, she grumbled.

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“That was a _little_ bit unethical”, John smiled as we waited for our train at Uxbridge Station. “Was the fellow even a police officer?”

I shook my head.

“Three actor friends of mine, one who was able to turn a passable similarity to the sergeant into a much better one”, I said. “Those long locks of his are quite distinctive and I got one of the others to call him 'Mr. Baldur, sir' just as she was coming up. Thankfully she did not notice that he was not at the station when she was taken in.”

He shook his head at me but smiled. Our train clanked to a halt at the platform and we got into a first-class compartment even though we would have to wait for the engine to run round before departure. He quirked an eyebrow at me when he saw me jamming the door locked.

“Again?” he grinned.

“Oh yes”, I said. “Again.”

That was when I took the vibrator out of my pocket. I honestly thought that he was going to have a seizure.

“You had that in your pocket all this time?” he gasped. “In a police-station of all places?”

“It has been everywhere”, I smiled, “except one place. Trousers off, John.”

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Maybe I might buy him a walking-stick for his next birthday, as he had to have a sit-down at Paddington before making the trek out to the cab ride home.

The very bumpy cab ride home! I was so bad!

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Postscriptum: Five months later Sergeant Baldur and his wife were blessed with another son whom they called Lothur. Seven days after the boy's arrival his father was informed that he was now the owner of a sizeable chunk of the County of Edinburghshire. Sad to say the city council in the Scottish capital tried to short-change my friend over his valuable inheritance but I made sure that they failed, and as a result he was able to buy the house next door to his own and create a large family dwelling – which he then proceeded to fill with an even larger family. As I said to John, some men really were quite insatiable.

I had no idea why he looked at me like that.

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	10. Case 239: Newick Smith, Gardener And Handyman ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1896\. Sergeant Chatton Smith loves his family, even if his lover and his lover's sons keep trying to kill him through sex! But for once it is a member of his blood family who needs his help over what he calls a slight complication – and what Chatton calls potential incest!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newick is an Anglicized form of Canowicakte, a Sioux name which means 'good hunter of the forest'. Rather appropriate in this case!

_[Narration by Sergeant Chatton Smith]_

“Love? Are you all right?”

I gazed blearily at the huge hunk of manhood talking to me. I had the cocks of two of his adopted sons inside of me while the third was jerking me off. I was twenty-seven years old, and I seriously doubted that I would make it to twenty-eight!

_And who the hell cared?_

“Now”, I managed. “Want you!”

Fray nodded at his boys and they eased off and out of me, then Rod and Rourke lifted me easily onto my lover's cock. Where I truly belonged; the feel of the Frayer filling me was wonderful despite the fact that all of his boys were petty much as hung as he was. My life could not have been any better!

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It was some time later and I was still impaled on the Frayer when Ross spoke. 

“We're worried about Wickie, Father.”

I felt as always the twinge of happiness in my love when the boy quite deliberately threw in that last word. Of course what with his unhappy marriage and then meeting me, Fray had thought that the one thing he would surely never have would be family. But about two years back he had ridden to the rescue of his former boss of his only to find that said rescue involved his adopting the fellow's three sons. Curiously Ross, Rod and Rourke really did look like my love, and as I said they well matched him in many areas. Especially the most important one!

Fray had settled his boys in Maryport a few miles to the south where, fortunately, they had at the time been opening up a new police-station and he had been able to get them all accepted as constables. They had also gone to register at the local molly-house, which had been hilarious as the fellow there had assumed Fray was part of the package (I had teased him about that, and the old fool had thought that he could actually fuck me into silence!). 

'Wickie' was actually my uncle Newick, who had worked as a gardener for a large family based over in Durham somewhere – Consett, I think – but had recently left his post for reasons he had been strangely reluctant to tell me about. He was actually only a few years older than me, being the son of my father's much younger brother Wynon. My uncle had used his savings to buy into the boys' molly-house down where he also served the occasional client. And according to the boys, was hung like a blood horse!

I blamed Fray for raising them like that.

“What is the problem?” I asked, shifting on my perch.

“I obviously need to fuck you more if you can still talk!” Fray teased. “Boys?”

_(I might say at this point that I always thought it a bit strange that it was Ross, the eldest of the boys at twenty-two, who nearly always spoke for them all. Rod and Rourke were twins and only a year younger, but they clearly looked up to their brother. Except of course when they decided he was getting a little bit too bossy and set about fucking his brains out like they had just tried to do mine!)._

“It is this woman at the local newspaper”, Ross said dourly. “Miss Catherine Newman; she seems to be taking an interest in our Wickie.”

It was, I suppose, moderately annoying that while my uncle had precisely no looks his 'huge endowment' somehow became automatically known to any fellow human within a ten-mile radius. I would have complained but my life, like my arse just now, was full enough. Frequently!

“A horizontal interest?” Fray asked, toying with my nipples in a way that may or may not have had me purring happily (judging from all those smirks in the vicinity, it likely had). 

“No, something to do with the family that he worked for”, Ross scoffed. “And possibly Jackie, the new boy.”

Mr. Jackson Powderham was about twenty years of age, moderately good-looking (the last time I had admired any other gentleman too much, I had had to take a day off work after Fray's definitely not jealous reaction) and, for some strange (or perhaps one large) reason, had taken a shine to my uncle. Relationships between molly-men were not unknown and I had wondered why, despite the nearly two decades difference in age, my uncle had been so unreceptive towards the young fellow. He had also been very cagey when I had raised the subject, which was not like him at all.

“He is most charming”, I said, “but Wickie is a strange fellow. I am sure that there is more to his coming here than he has told us so far, but there will be no getting it out of him until he is ready.”

“Whereas Father can always get it out of you any time!” Ross grinned. “Any chance of dessert?”

“I shall go and get it”, Fray grinned.

I spotted the obvious a tad too late. My love stood up and his cock pressed hard against my poor, abused prostate. I yelped as I tried to come on empty and clung even harder to him.

“Oops!” he said with his usual utter insincerity. “Forgot you were there, Chas.”

The boys all sniggered and went to fetch our desserts. I would have glared at the smirking bastard still inside me, but the last time I had done that he had walked me up and down our stairs twice, and I may or may not have passed out as a result.

I glared anyway.

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When I came to it was to just Fray. Still rock hard. And still inside of me. Not bad for someone now not far from fifty.

I did not of course voice that last thought as I had to work the next day, and I got more than enough knowing smirks from the bastards at work as it was! Even my double-padded chair in my office there hurt like hell some days!

“The boys are upstairs”, he smiled. “So not to worry about the moaning.”

I shook my head at him. 

“They are almost as bad as you are!” I said in mock annoyance.

“I raised them well, then!” he grinned. “That reminds me; our Spartan friends are staying at the hotel all next week.”

I shuddered in anticipation. He was referring to the three Hunsdon brothers; Agis, Lycurgus and Leonidas, who Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson (my former boss Mr. Campbell Kerr's successor) had recommended to the area 'for a memorable holiday'. They were three huge bears of gentlemen all in their late twenties, and they had very much enjoyed meeting Fray's sons. And me; I would never quite view 'pass the parcel' in the same light again after that naked version with the seven of them – _and me as the damn parcel!_

“I suppose that that was Ross was worried about”, I said, smiling at some Very Happy Thoughts. “I have read the sort of article that journalists write when they say something without actually coming right out and saying it. For legal reasons, I suppose. It might do Wickie or our boys great harm if they came under attack.”

“I would never let that happen”, Fray said firmly. “So I thought that you might write to Mr. Holmes down in London and ask if he can help stop this woman.”

“Why do you not write?” I asked. 

He grinned lasciviously.

“Because I am sure that when he sees your shaky handwriting, he will know exactly where you were sat while writing!” he grinned. “Ready?”

I sighed in a put-upon way. My life was so hard!

In every sense!

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Thankfully the boys had brought round some jars of that wonderful cooling unguent, so I was just about able to limp to work the following day. The journey seemed interminable and I had to endure a sharp May shower, but it was far, far better than riding in a cab with no suspension. That was so not going to happen! And of course the bastards at work were smirking as much as usual. Oh well, back to the daily grind.

Then Fray popped by for another unexpected meeting. He really was trying to kill me through sex!

I was so damn lucky!

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As things turned out I forgot to post the letter to Mr. Holmes which I found when I got back that evening, so I put it in my jacket pocket for the next day. However Wickie came round that evening – which was just as well considering the bombshell that he was about to drop on me.

“Fray is concerned about this Miss Newman person”, I said. “Do you know her, Wickie?”

He blushed horribly. Physically we were not dissimilar except that he was shorter and, as I said, had little in the way of looks. Although having seem him naked one time I knew that those stories about him were more than true; he could have worked part-time as a milking-stool!

“She’s the sister of Geoff Newman”, he said. “He married Petunia, the second daughter of my master Lord Harnham back in Durham.”

“What is a sister of your former employer's son-in-law doing this side of the Pennines?” I asked.

He reddened even more. What was going on here?

“You know how you and Fraser's sons.... you know”, he said.

“That they do rather more than wave their arms at me in a vague manner”, I said patiently, wishing that he would get to the point. “So?”

“Jackie's my son!”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“But he is a Powderham”, I said at last.

“That's why that dratted Newman woman is here”, he said ruefully. “She suspects the worst – _and she's right, damn her!”_

“You and Jackie”, I said, thinking that there was absolutely no resemblance between the two men whatsoever even if they were nearly two decades apart. “That was why you rejected his advances. But how did it all happen?”

He took a deep breath. I felt quite sorry for him as he was clearly in some distress.

“Lord Harnham's wife had nine children, including three sons”, he began. “All the boys and one of the girls died, so he only had the five daughters to inherit his estate. It’s a huge place and will see them all settled comfortably but he was very set in his ways. That included choosing suitable young gentlemen for his daughters to marry – whether they liked them or not.”

“The likes of Mr. Newman”, I said. He nodded.

“Jack Powderham, a rich businessman, married his eldest daughter Flora”, he said, “and Geoff Newman married Petunia, his second. Five of the most wishy-washy men on the planet all told; each of the girls hated their husbands. Jack died recently and Flora came round to the house…. you know.”

I had a sudden image of.... oh Lord, no! Surely not? I looked at him incredulously and he nodded.

“Flora was my first”, he said glumly. “She and Jack were visiting just before their marriage; they were staying in a small place in the forest that backs onto the house. She came to me and said she had something in her house that needed seeing to. That something was _her!_ Nine months later she gave birth to Teddy who grew up to be the image of me, poor boy. But he was also like his grandfather, Flora's father, so no-one said anything.”

“Jackie?” I asked, aghast. 

“Flora must've told her sisters because each of them 'needed something seeing to' just before their weddings”, he sighed. “Then they always paid a visit to the house with their new children which involved ‘something else that needed seeing to’. My master wanted all his grandchildren christened at the local church so they always had a reason. Though I couldn’t believe when Flora came round for the funeral and ‘once more for old time’s sake!’”

I gulped. The randy little bugger!

“How many?” I asked cautiously.

If I had not been so shocked I might have spotted the slight hesitation before his answer.

“Twenty-six between the five of them", he said glumly, "and I can pretty much guarantee all of them are mine.”

I stared at him incredulously. Seriously, he was almost as bad as Fray!

"How could this be worse?" I groaned.

His silence was unnerving, to say the least. I stared incredulously at him.

" _Could_ it be worse?" I asked.

"They, er, kept having their friends to the cottage", he said, very pointedly not looking at me. "You know how the nobs love the pastoral thing so no-one thought it odd for several women to be spending weekends in the place and.... I always got asked over. To see to things."

I stared expectantly at him. Somehow he managed to turn even redder.

"I kind of lost count after a hundred", he admitted.

 _"A hundred?"_ I almost yelled.

"I was only a servant", he said defensively. "Do what you're told, so I did. I think even their friends were having friends round in the end; that was one of the reasons I had to leave. I was getting worn out, Chas!"

 _Sheer sexual exhaustion, the dog_ , I thought wryly. I wondered if he was related to Fray at all.

“And now you are being propositioned by your own son”, I said, thinking wryly that karma had a warped sense of humour at times. “Not to mention that this Newman woman may be on to you.”

He looked at me hopefully. I was reminded that despite his only infrequent visits to my house while I was growing up, he had often been there for me, and someone I felt much more comfortable talking to than my away with the fairies parents. I had to help him, even if he was arguably the only gentleman in all Cumberland randier than Fray. He deserved my help. 

Frankly he deserved a medal!

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Mr. Holmes wrote back to me at once, stating that he had put in motion some plans to deal with the nosy Miss Newman. He was also consulting what he called a 'specialist' about my uncle. I doubted that even modern science could cure Advanced Fray-itis, but I hoped that he might find something.

The following Monday Fray went down to visit his grandson Fray Junior, Ross's son then nearly four years old, in Maryport. He came back looking worried.

“That Miss Newman has written an article about the late John Powderham, Jackie's grandfather”, he told me. “Well, sort of grandfather. You remember Wickie telling us that his first squeeze's father died out there in Africa?”

“And when her husband died she headed straight for Wickie”, I said, “because she wanted….. honestly, what is it wish some women these days?”

“Apparently the father was running some sort of male brothel out there for our Navy's sailors”, he said. “Poor Jackie is horrified!”

“He will not be for long”, I said confidently.

“Why?” he asked.

I showed him the article that Mr. Holmes had sent me from London.

“This was sent to the office of Miss Newman”, I said. “It was what encouraged her to write that scurrilous article.”

He just looked adorably confused for such a big man. I would have thrown in cute, but I had barely survived the last time that I had called him that. From now on it was only to be used before long weekends, and preferably whole weeks off!

“Look at the name”, I said.

He looked puzzled at first, but then he got it.

“This looks like it will call for a celebration”, he said. “I will see if I can get the boys all round for when our London guests call!”

I shuddered in anticipation of what was to come. Me repeatedly, I suspected.

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The storm broke the very next day when a very shamefaced Maryport newspaper had to print a front-page retraction of their big story from the day before (it had been made clear to them that anything less would have led to their being sued into oblivion). It turned out that not only had Mr. John Powderham not run a male brothel in Africa, he had actually run a hospital for rescued slaves. The newspaper made it clear that the whole story had been very badly researched and that they had already 'dispensed with the services of' (sacked) the journalist responsible'. The grovelling went on for three whole pages, longer than even the original 'exclusive'. 

I had a strange experience that same day for as I was walking along the seafront I saw what I thought was our friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, only to realize when I drew nearer that this was a dark blond fellow with brown eyes. He was walking with a handsome blond fellow of about thirty years of age who was wearing shorts (brave for a Cumberland seafront, I thought) and whose accent as they talked was I thought Dutch or possibly German. I wondered who he was; strangers tended to stand out in so small a place as Allonby.

The following day I found out when Wickie, or what was left of Wickie, limped round to see me in the evening. I quirked an eyebrow as he winced while sitting down; with his endowments he almost never batted.

“Sandy!” he groaned.

“Sandy who?” I inquired.

“Mr. Alexander van Allen”, he sighed. “He’s a South African who settled in England last year and has been touring the country since. He was passing through the area and decided to pass through me!”

“And you batted for a change!” I smiled. 

“Batted, bowled and tried every position in the field”, he said with a yawn. “He wants to take me with him when he goes back, but I do not think there will be anything left of me by then!”

I smiled, but before I could say anything else he had slipped back and was snoring gently. I smiled and left him to his slumbers. Some older men just did not have the stamina of us younger ones.

Obviously I never voiced that particular thought as I would not have been able to sit down for a week!

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“I am glad that it all worked out in the end”, I smiled. “Wickie has found someone to love and can avoid.... complications. And Mr. Holmes said that he will be keeping an eye on that pestilential Miss Newman, to make sure that she does not pop up somewhere else.”

“That is good”, Fray smiled. “A happy ending all round. I really think we should celebrate.”

I was on my guard at once. I had walked into that sort of verbal trap before, and been unable to walk out of it afterwards.

“How?” I asked warily.

“I have arranged for the boys to come up and 'thank' you”, he grinned. “Along with our Spartan warriors – and your uncle with his new lover!”

On Lord it was going to be naked pass the parcel time again! With me as the damn parcel!

“When can we expect them?” my treacherous mouth asked.

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Ye Gods, just when I had not thought that things could get any worse, it turned out that the boys' new friends were not just the Selkirk twins, who I knew vaguely from the molly-houses in London and whom they had helped out recently, but they had brought the boys' other new friends, two handsome gentlemen called Mr. Jonathan Baker and Mr. Francis Poncherello both of whom were now staying with them permanently. Fray, his three sons, three Greek gods, Wickie, Alex, the Selkirks and their American friends. Thirteen of the horny bastards!

I had to take Monday _and_ Tuesday off, even if I spent both days at home ignoring someone's bloody annoying smirk! And I was definitely ordering a new padded chair for my office at work!

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	11. Case 240: The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Sherlock and John return once more to Berkshire, this time to a small town seemingly left behind by the nineteenth century – except, as things turn out, when it comes to murder.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of the things that I found puzzling about my blue-eyed genius lover was that he was sometimes strangely uncertain, especially bearing in mind some of our experiments in and out of the bedroom. I had concluded some time ago that he seemed to have a nagging worry that I might start to find him boring if he did not keep me on my toes and might actually seek comfort elsewhere. Frankly there was more likelihood of the Moon deciding to leave Earth and start orbiting Mars for a change! I loved my man more than life itself and I would never, ever leave him.

On this particular day however, I really wanted to kill him!

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The day had started well enough. At least the first two or three seconds, after which my senses had kicked in and I had realized that I was tied face down to the bed, my morning wood rubbing fruitlessly against the sheets. And Sherlock was sat kneeling between my pinioned legs slowly preparing me for what was to come. Me, with any luck.

Sherlock's desire to keep me interested in sex (really there was no need but the effort seemed to make him happy so I graciously allowed it) had led the previous evening to me dressing up again in the Roman gladiator costume with leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, a leather harness across my chest and what turned out to be a detachable leather skirt. There was no sword but with Sherlock impaling me three times in rapid succession I had not really needed one. I must have passed out after the third time, for my last memory had been of his clambering over my back and kissing me to sleep.

My still half-asleep brain only then realized that the small loops in the four cuffs were to enable them to be tied to something, in this case the bedposts. Sherlock had detached the skirt but had left the harness on and the metal ring in the centre felt cold against my bare chest. I squirmed in vain and he chucked darkly. 

“My perfect fighter”, he praised. “John, possibly from the Hebrew 'Yohanan' meaning 'God is gracious'. For in those hazel eyes and that manly body of yours, my perfect mate, I see God's greatest work.”

I blushed at the praise. He knew I did not take kind words easily and it was most unfair of him to do this while I was not in a position to object. Or a position to do anything, much. 

He gently scissored me open, kissing around the harness on my back up to the thin leather collar. Before putting it on he had shown me the engraving inside that stated 'Property of Sherlockus' and, as always, had offered me the chance to refuse. As if! This man owned me more fully than any of those long-vanished Romans had ever owned their slaves, and I was truly blessed to be owned.

I felt the gentle pressure of his cock-head at my entrance and braced myself. But nothing happened. I turned my head trying to send him a sideways glare.

“Sherlock!” I moaned.

“Do you really want this?” he teased. “Or should I just drive you to the edge then leave you there?”

My eyes widened. Part of me was horrified at the thought, while another part – mostly the one achingly hard against the sheets that could probably have smashed its way through a brick just then – was very keen indeed. He chuckled darkly.

“I am going to fuck you until you are ready to come, John”, he said casually, as he somehow slipped a cock-ring onto me but did not yet close it. “Then I am going to leave the harness on you and you are going to wear it beneath your normal clothes. All day.”

I gulped.

“This particular ring is designed to break if you get too hard”, Sherlock said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “But if you can keep it intact all day, there will be a _nice_ reward!”

He slipped into me and began to pound my prostate mercilessly. I let out an angry growl and resolved that I could do this. Hell, a quiet day in Baker Street working on my writings and all I would have to do would be to ignore Sherlock trying to provoke me. I could do that.

I came violently into the sheets and he followed me almost immediately, slumping down inelegantly on top of my trapped body. Yes, I could do this. I was sure that I could do this.

Probably sure.

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Which brought me to right now where I wanted to kill the blue-eyed bastard! Barely thirty minutes after we had emerged from his bedroom with the leather chafing beneath my clothes and the ring all too tight, Sherlock had told me that he had a new case. I guessed that this had to have been the telegram that had arrived late the previous night – which meant that the bastard had been planning this torture all along! Even worse, the case demanded Sherlock's immediate presence in west Berkshire, the other end of the county where we had 'solved' the Yoxley case a few months back and well over an hour's bumpy train-ride from London. Yes I was going to have to kill him.

_If the bloody train journey did not kill me first!_

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That journey was not helped by the fact that even though it was June and summer was only a couple of weeks away, the country was beset by strong winds and the train was rocking somewhat alarmingly as it rattled its way through the Berkshire countryside. We were on our way to the small market town of Stevedon at the request of a local police officer, the wonderfully-named Sergeant Wilberforce Rhynes-Chevalier. The crime that he had asked us to come and investigate was a strange one indeed.

“Why would anyone want to poison an abbey full of monks?” I mused as I read through Bradshaw's short piece on the town. “It is surely a crime without motive.”

Sherlock looked at me hungrily and I was sure that I felt the metal around my cock groan under the strain. The day was going to be long and hard, like something else that I could mention. Let alone that we would be in an abbey of all places!

“There is always the possibility that we are dealing with a madman”, he admitted and he somehow managed to add an inflection of a growl into his words, “but few crimes are truly without motive. Even to the madman his actions usually make some sort of sense.”

“But monks!” I said. “Really?”

“Is there anything of interest about the place in Bradshaw?” he asked.

“A bit”, I said. “Stevedon was a West Saxon _burh_ , acquired a castle under the Normans and had a minster church that eventually became an abbey. It remained important until it fell foul of that blackguard Henry the Eighth, the abbey being sold to one of his followers who mostly knocked it down and used its stone to build the Abbey Grange. That building was purchased by Henry Earl of Warminster who entertained Good Queen Bess there, but a century later his descendant Earl Arthur fled along with James the Second and it passed to some cousins of theirs, the Horsingtons, who have held it ever since. About twenty years ago the current Lord Horsington, the first Catholic to hold that title since Earl Arthur, gave some of the old outbuildings to an order of monks who have set up a new abbey there, although I am sure that it must be a fraction the size of the original.”

“What about the town?” he asked.

“Gone downhill since”, I said. “Lost its castle in the Civil Wars and managed to get sacked by both the Roundheads _and_ the Cavaliers – some achievement! – then got sacked again in the Glorious Revolution by the Dutch, was by-passed by the Great West Road and finally refused to admit the railway when it came through the area fifty years or so back. Brunel went via Swindon instead so Stevedon became a backwater.”

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When we finally reached the pleasant little town however, I wondered if it had chosen that badly in its transport-related decision. Its isolation had left it a quiet place, redolent of an England which seemed to belong to another age. In my own native Northumberland I had seen the difference between Morpeth, which we had visited from time to time as my mother had had friends there, and Bamburgh to which I walked to daydream my days away far too often. The former had grown appreciably even during my short time in my native county, being on the main line between Newcastle and Berwick, while the latter, once the capital of the ancient kingdom of Bernicia, had remained a rural backwater. Had Stevedon chosen well or ill? It was hard to say.

I had visualized the Abbey Grange as being out in the country some distance from the town itself so it came as a surprise that it was quite the opposite. A rather unimpressive brick archway leading off from the High Street between the Tar & Feathers Inn and a solicitor’s led to a second archway beyond which we found ourselves in some sort of stable-yard. A smartly-dressed red-bearded fellow in his forties wearing a tweed suit that looked as if it had seen better days approached us. He looked decidedly unwelcoming.

“Greetings sirs”, he said tersely. “You _are_ aware that this is private property?”

His tone very much implied that he hoped we had not been. 

“We are here to see Sergeant Rhynes-Chevalier”, Sherlock said politely. “At the new Abbey. We were led to understand that this is the way in?”

The man looked at us thoughtfully.

“This is the rear entrance, sirs”, he said. “This ground is the property of Stevedon Abbey but the Grange owner has right of passage across it. The main entrance to the big house is off West Street.”

“As we are here over the not unimportant matter of the brothers being poisoned, it is clearly the Abbot that we need to see”, Sherlock said. “Who are _you_ , sir?”

His tone was not exactly rude but it was as dry and unwelcoming as the one in which we ourselves had been addressed. The fellow was clearly surprised to have his own attitude batted back at him.

“Mr. Sirius Furness, sirs”, he said. “Estate-manager to Lord Horsington, owner of the Grange. The Abbey entrance is that blue door over there.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks and we left the fellow standing in the middle of the yard. A knock at the door and we were admitted into the old building where we found the Father Abbot and Sergeant Rhynes-Chevalier waiting for us. 

The Abbot was a small white-haired elderly fellow seemingly worn down by his many years in office, while the sergeant was the exact opposite, a tall, muscular fellow in his early thirties who seemed to fill the room with his sheer bulk. He also had unusual flaxen hair that was cut almost like a monk, and the thought crossed my mind that he would have been better fitted to being a crusading knight of old rather than a country policeman. When he spoke however it was with the typical slow Wiltshire accent.

“We both appreciate you coming down, sirs”, he said. “This may be something and nothing, but the fact that it happened where it did has got people talking. We would both like it cleared up as soon as possible.”

“You were a little vague in your letter”, Sherlock said. “Although I must say, the idea of an ‘accidental mass poisoning’ did arouse my curiosity.”

_(I really wished that he had not used the word 'arouse'. Nor have smiled knowingly at me when he said it. It made things hard.....er. And in the presence of a man of God!)_

“I thank you for coming”, the Abbot said mercifully (hopefully!) unaware of my sufferings. “My name is Dunstan and I am father to the seventeen brothers in this establishment. I only hope that you can establish what did happen as the sergeant here is fearful that it may be a precursor to something worse.”

Sherlock and I both looked at the sergeant curiously.

“Policeman’s instinct”, he said shortly. “Something about this smells wrong, and it’s not just the sage and onions!”

“We seem to be getting ahead of ourselves”, Sherlock smiled. “Let us start at the beginning.”

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A brother brought us the traditional bread and wine, and Father Abbot waited until he had gone before commencing.

“It happened on Friday”, he began. “It was a perfectly normal day until the drama that befell us at dinner that evening. There was fish of course, and potatoes served with herbs. Dinner was barely finished, however, before all the brothers started feeling ill. Doctor Storrington was called and he quickly established that they had all been poisoned.”

“He was sure of that?” I asked. The Abbot nodded.

“Belladonna, or deadly nightshade”, he said. “Some must have sprouted amongst the herbs and have been picked in error. Unfortunately Brother Demetrius who normally supervises the herbarium has been ill this week so his replacement must have been careless.”

I wondered at the expert 'just happening' to be off ill at this time. In my experience coincidences did not happen as obligingly as that.

“Were there any casualties?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head at me for some reason. The Abbot shook his head.

“Mercifully none”, he said. “Three of the brothers were worse than the rest and Brother Honorius was very sick, but they all survived thanks be to God. It seemed like a tragic error.”

“I am not inclined to believe that it was an error”, Sergeant Rhynes-Chevalier said firmly, “tragic or otherwise. I spoke to the two young brothers who picked the herbs and they were both adamant that there was only sage in their baskets. I have looked at both plants and there are definite differences.”

I rather liked this policeman. He definitely seemed to know what was what.

“It is I suppose possible that the two would not wish to incriminate themselves”, Sherlock mused. “Still, let us assume for a moment that you are correct in which case this was a deliberate act. Was everyone poisoned?”

“Except for three of us”, the Abbot said. “Myself – I was dining at the Grange that evening. Brother Richard the prior who was working on some documents in the town library and had ordered sandwiches for his return as he did not know how long he would be absent for. Also the cook, Brother Michael, who always eats after everybody else.”

 _Convenient_ , I thought not at all cattily. Sherlock shot me a sharp look for some reason.

“Please tell me about the Grange”, he said.

“It has been in the Horsington family ever since the Glorious Revolution”, the Abbot said. “Lord Francis is the current holder and alas! is not in good health. We had thought that he was the last of the line but last year he learned of a distant cousin, a Mr. Alexander Hill, who has returned to England from Australia and is now his heir. That was important because in 1704 the then-Lord Horsington wrote into his will that the Church would get the lands back if the family’s male line ever failed. The current Lord being of the Old Faith changed the wording to the Catholic Church, of course. That looked quite likely until the advent of Mr. Hill.”

I wondered if the man of God had welcomed that advent. He looked a little embarrassed for some reason.

“The family has been very generous”, he said defensively. “These buildings were the old outhouses and stables to the Grange, but when Lord Francis inherited his first act was to gift them back to the Holy Church.”

I underlined the word ‘back’ in my notes. Predictably I got another sharp look from 'someone'. I felt quite entitled to roll my eyes.

“How has Lord Francis responded to the incident?” Sherlock asked.

“He sent his own doctor down to help”, the Abbot said. “He could not have been more helpful.”

I was sure that I could hear the implied ‘and so he should have been’ in there somewhere.

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Sherlock decided that he first wished to see the garden from which the herbs for the deadly dinner had been gathered and we were shown there by Brother Joseph, Brother Demetrius’s main replacement during the latter’s indisposition. My friend questioned the monk closely on various herbs around the small enclosed garden but he definitely seemed to know what he was talking about. Certainly much more than I did, although that was probably not saying much. Belladonna was grown along with a number of other potentially dangerous herbs for medicinal purposes but Brother Joseph showed us that all of them were in a fenced-off part of the garden to which only Brother Demetrius or he ever went. All the other monks knew well that even touching some of the herbs grown therein could bring illness or even death and there was a sign on the gate reminding them of that, plus a box beneath it containing a pair of gloves. 

We decided to adjourn to the Coach & Horses, the other major tavern in the High Street, for lunch. Sherlock's smirk at my obvious discomfort was not helping matters and I went to the toilets to adjust myself a little. His quirked eyebrow on my return was just asking for it. 

The sergeant joined us just as we were finishing but declined a beer as he was on duty, although he accepted a coffee.

“I could not say as much in front of the Abbot”, he said, “but I do not like his prior, Brother Richard. Although I do not see any motive for his attempting to kill an entire abbey full of his own brothers!”

“Let us start by restricting ourselves to facts”, Sherlock said. “No-one has died. That may have been the intention all along.”

“Someone wanted to make an abbey full of holy men fall sick?” I said dubiously.

“Tell me about the people at the Grange”, Sherlock said. “In particular as to which faith they follow.”

The sergeant seemed surprised at that question but duly answered.

“Our Lord Francis is about as Catholic as they come!” he said firmly. “As the Abbot said he was able to change the original wording leaving everything to 'the Church'; I heard that he spent a lot of money on lawyers to make it all sound. He pays for masses and everything, and until this distant relative of his rolled up I believe that he would have been perfectly happy to have the lands returned to the Abbey on his death. But Mr. Hill’s advent changed all that. Blood trumps faith, I suppose.”

“It is rather strange”, Sherlock mused. “Perhaps also a little too timely. With the succession unclear the abbey could still have inherited, and possession is an important factor in the law especially against a foreign claimant, unfair though that is. What is this Mr. Hill like?”

“He’s a foreigner all right!” the sergeant said, sounding openly distrustful. “Two of Lord Francis’s cousins, the brothers James and Alexander Hill, went over to Australia some years ago. Mr. James Hill got shot over a claim to a gold-mine; his brother was injured in the same attack but survived, unlike the fellow who killed his brother. I had my suspicions when he rolled up so timely and all so I did a few inquiries of my own, but his story was true enough.”

“Is he religious at all?” Sherlock asked. The sergeant shook his head.

“He’s Church of England but not loud about it”, he said. “There’s been talk that Lord Francis wished him to convert although he did not make his inheriting the estate dependent on that, which I suppose he could’ve done. I think that Mr. Hill might go along with it just to oblige him though; it seems a fair deal for what he would be getting.”

“We were 'fortunate' enough to meet the estate-manager earlier”, I said dryly. “He was not exactly welcoming.”

The sergeant nodded.

“Mr. Sirius Furness depends on His Lordship for his job”, he said. “It’s said that he and Mr. Hill do not see eye to eye over the future of the estate, which I think is putting it mildly. Mr. Furness, he has a reputation for the drink and has said some rather uncomplimentary things about Mr. Hill, to pt it mildly. I suspect that he will be looking for alternative employment when his master passes, and given his poor health recently I doubt that will be long. Pity really; we could do a lot worse.”

“Mr. Furness is Church of England?” Sherlock asked.

“He is”, the sergeant confirmed. “Very High Church, unlike Mr. Hill. That’s another point of tension between them, as if they needed one.”

“It is all very odd”, Sherlock said. “We have a crime committed without any apparent motive _and_ in the wrong place.”

“The wrong place?” I asked.

“If there were a poisoning at the Abbey Grange I could understand it”, Sherlock said. “But in the Abbey itself – it makes no sense.”

His words were to prove horribly prophetic.

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Sherlock, the bastard, spent the whole return journey teasing me so much that when we finally made it to Paddington, I could barely walk along the platform with my erection. But I had made it thus far and I was determined to succeed. I was so near to my 'reward'!

Except that I had forgotten that we still had a long, bumpy cab ride back to Baker Street. That and Sherlock's constant possessive growl proved my undoing, and almost within sight of the house I felt a sudden snap followed by a horrible wetness across my chest and down my legs (Sherlock had insisted that I don no underwear, the bastard). I actually cried in disappointment.

“So close”, he muttered. “Never mind. Perhaps I can offer you a small consolation prize.”

I perked up – at least until I discovered that he had been talking quite literally. There was a huge chocolate cake which he had ordered in, and he cut me the tiniest slice imaginable before helping himself to a larger piece and eating it in front of me. And as usual my pouting had no effect on him. Life was unfair!

All right, he did let me eat the rest of the cake later. That is not the point!

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Exactly one week later Sherlock and I were once more on our way to west Berkshire. There had been a second poisoning, this time at the Abbey Grange itself just as my friend had foretold. But this time someone _had_ died!

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The poisoning had happened on a Wednesday and Sergeant Rhynes-Chevalier had wired to request our presence as soon as possible. Sherlock had surprised me by responding that we were currently finishing a case (we were not) and could not come immediately but that he promised to come down on the first train on Friday morning, which we were now on. He had used the intervening Thursday to do some research into the Horsingtons, to what end I did not know. Now however we were on our way, the train thankfully rather smoother than the week before. This time I had no 'distractions' to torture me – apart from the usual blue-eyed light of my life sat opposite me looking like butter would not melt in his mouth. 

Ha! Freaking! Ha!

We met the sergeant at Uffington Station from which he took us directly to the Abbey Grange and the study of Lord Francis. The man seemed to be in shock, wrapped as he was in copious blankets on his couch.

“This is terrible!”, he muttered. “It is all my fault!”

“How so, sir?” Sherlock asked plainly. The nobleman looked at him.

“Last week”, he said in a tone little more than a whisper, “I received an anonymous letter from Australia. The sender claimed that the gentleman calling himself Mr. Alexander Hill was in fact an impostor. My cousins were both killed in the argument over that mine and Mr. Hill was the one that killed them, before assuming one of their identities and coming to England.”

“What did you do with the letter?” Sherlock asked.

“I threw it into the fire of course!” the nobleman said angrily. “Scurrilous nonsense! But I kept wondering….. so when I went to confession with Prior Richard on Wednesday I told all to him. He asked me how I felt about it and I…I….”

He stopped, looking totally wretched.

“You did what?” Sherlock prompted.

“I said that I hoped the Good Lord would send me a sign!” the nobleman said. “Then at dinner that same evening my cousin – or whoever he was – was poisoned!”

I had to suppress a laugh when I caught the sergeant's face at that moment. It very clearly said 'God give me strength!'. 

We managed to extricate ourselves from the blubbering nobleman and the sergeant took us into the dining-room where the poisoning had happened. There was a massive portrait of a smartly-dressed and bewigged nobleman from the last century hanging on the wall, staring down disapprovingly at us all as if by our presence we were Lowering The Tone Of Their Abode. Either that or he had like so many portrait subjects back been suffering from an attack of constipation while sitting.

“Edwin, the Lord Horsington who inherited the estate after the Glorious Revolution”, the sergeant explained. “A bit of an eccentric; he was the one who promised the land back to the Church if his line ever failed. I suppose having fathered three sons and a dozen more on the wrong side of the blanket, he thought the line was secure enough. But you never can tell these days.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

“You seem highly conversant with the family history”, he observed.

“You have to know the important folks round here so you do not tread on any toes”, the sergeant said firmly. “Especially who is not talking to who for whatever reason. You seem to find that portrait interesting, sir.”

“I do”, Sherlock said. “You mentioned those born 'on the wrong side of the blanket' as you call them. Would not they be barred from inheriting?”

“Not if all the legitimate lines were exhausted”, the sergeant said. “Lord Edwin himself was a bastard – in both senses of the word! – so he had the succession done that way. Bit it looks as if the Catholic Church will get its land back after all, unless another heir pops up out of nowhere!”

“Or someone pretending to be such”, Sherlock said. “Let us return to Wednesday night. What was the precise sequence of events, please?”

The sergeant flipped open his notebook.

“Lord Horsington spent the afternoon reading in his room”, he said. “Prior Richard visited him shortly after four bringing a herbal rub as well as some supplies for the kitchen....”

“Supplies?” Sherlock cut in.

“His Lordship obtained his herbs and spices, as well as some vegetables, from the Abbey”, the sergeant said. “It was part of the deal for them having the land; a sort of rent I suppose. That, according to the local doctor, was what got Mr. Hill. The meal that night was roast beef with potatoes and vegetables, and the sage that the cook used must have been from the same batch that poisoned the monks the week before. Damn and blast, I was told of the arrangement and I should have remembered that some might have found its way up here!”

“Was Lord Francis not also poisoned?” I asked. The sergeant shook his head.

“He ate little that night, and he did feel poorly afterwards but nothing serious. He said he was still distracted from his conversation with Prior Richard earlier; you saw what sort of man he is so I suppose that makes sense.”

“No-one else came to or left the house that day?” Sherlock asked.

“His Lordship did go out for a walk before dinner”, the sergeant said. “It was when Mr. Hill came back from a visit to Swindon; he said he wished to avoid talking to him given his letter from earlier. He went over Fairlee Woods way – that is just north of the town – but did not see anyone.”

Sherlock smiled.

“That is important”, he said firmly. “The doctor and I have some telegrams to send a some calls to make in the town, but I see a promising line of inquiry here. If all goes well you may have your town gaol occupied by the end of the day, sir. Though I think that you will be surprised at who you will have just put inside it!”

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Having visited the post-office to send off a telegram our next port of call was to see Doctor Charles Storrington, who had examined the body after the death. The fellow seemed more than a little wary of us.

“Are you doubting my findings, gentlemen?” he inquired somewhat testily.

“Not at all”, Sherlock said smoothly. “I do have two questions however, which may help me to solve this matter. First, what alcohol did Mr. Hill partake of shortly before dying?”

“His Lordship served a rich red wine from Spain with dinner”, the doctor said. “He provided me with the decanter which I of course had tested. It was negative. The only poison was in the herbs. I am sorry.”

“That is exactly what I hoped that you would say”, Sherlock said, to the fellow's evident mystification. “My second question is more personal so I will understand if you feel unable to answer it. For how long has Lord Francis suffered from his heart condition?”

The doctor stared at him in surprise.

“He told you about that?” he asked dubiously.

“No”, Sherlock said. “It is just my business to know things, usually things that people would rather I did not know. I merely wished for you to confirm my suspicions. Thank you for your time, doctor.”

He ushered me out of the room. I turned to him.

“How did _you_ know that Lord Francis had a heart condition?” I asked. “I would have needed an examination to have learned that. Or do you think that someone may try to poison him next?”

“My thoughts are not in that direction”, Sherlock smiled. “Though his condition may become all too relevant if one of our next calls yields the result that I expect.”

As well as its two taverns Stevedon's high street had two restaurants, but Sherlock apparently did not find whatever he was looking for in any of them. That was until a blonde barkeep in the Tar & Feathers (fifty if she was a day, _far_ too much make-up and who looked at someone who was not me in a most unbecoming manner!) suggested that we try the Navigation Inn which lay a mile north of the town where the main road to the west passed by. Sherlock indulged me with a cab ride and after a short time inside he emerged looking triumphant. 

We returned to the town where he had also had an answer to his telegram, which was clearly to his satisfaction.

“The case is closed!” he said firmly. “This time it will give me great satisfaction, based on what I discovered about the family yesterday, to bring the perpetrators to book.”

“Perpetrators?” I asked. “More than one?”

“Two men were involved in this crime”, he said. “Come, let us fetch Sergeant Rhynes-Chevalier. I think that he in particular will be pleased with what I have discovered.”

In light of what happened next, his statement proved truer than I could ever have realized.

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There were seven of us in the dining-room at the Abbey Grange, as the setting sun gave the room a golden tinge. Lord Horsington sat at the head of the table, with his estate manager Mr. Furness on his right and Doctor Storrington on his left. Father Abbot and Prior Richard were sat down one side of the table and I was opposite them. Sergeant Rhynes-Chevalier stood by the door, his huge presence a reassurance bearing in mind Sherlock, standing directly opposite our host, was about to accuse someone (or some two) of murder.

“This crime was most carefully planned”, my friend began. “That is impressive, considering that the whole thing was done in barely seven days. Because until one week ago our chief protagonist had no intention of committing murder, although he was already entertaining certain doubts about the victim, Mr. Alexander Hill.”

He turned to the sergeant.

“I am afraid that I told you a small lie before coming down this time”, he said. “There were two matters about this case which I wished to clarify; both involved some in-depth research and calling on a friend of mine for help which was why I needed an extra day. I was able to establish that the claims made in the letter that Lord Horsington received recently were in fact genuine. Mr. Alexander Hill was in fact Mr. Bruce Wanless, a wanted Australian felon and almost certainly the man who murdered the Hill brothers having learned of their potential inheritance back in England.”

“I knew it!” Lord Horsington muttered. Sherlock turned to him.

“But you yourself were not wholly truthful either, were you my lord?” he said. “Even though you did entertain doubts about Mr. Hill's veracity, a mere letter alleging him to be a liar would not have been enough to persuade someone like you. I spoke to your footman and he told me that this 'letter' was in fact a substantial sheaf of documents. Whoever sent them to you included written proof that your supposed cousin was in fact an impostor. You omitted that fact; indeed you misled us by saying that you threw 'the letter' into the fire implying that that was all you had received.”

“I did not wish to look more stupid that I already did”, the nobleman muttered, red-faced.

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “Let us consider what happened next. You are weak, sir, and you knew full well that if Mr. Hill had found out that you were checking up on him.....we all know that accidents can happen, can they not? So you sought help. You went to Prior Richard in the confessional and you told him all.”

The prior looked disdainfully at Sherlock.

“As I am sure you are aware, sir”, he said starchily, “the seal of the confessional is sacred.”

“I do”, Sherlock said. “Religious orders are granted certain privileges so that they can function as they need, and that is all right and proper. _But those privileges do not extend to the act of murder most foul!”_

There was a shocked silence in the room. Sherlock paused before continuing.

“The two of you hatched a plan, but as neither of you were medical experts you decided to try it out first. Prior Richard knew that the cook ground up the sage before using it so he himself ground up some belladonna and, on visiting the kitchen placed it amongst the prepared sage to be used for his fellow brothers' evening meal. That way he could test to see the reaction to a dose of that size in relation to the size of the meal served. He knew also which brothers tended to be slightly greedier. He then went off to the library for some 'research' and waited for what would unfold. Fortunately, no-one died. Unfortunately, the meddlesome local sergeant went and called in a renowned consulting detective from London. Suddenly and not just because of Lord Horsington's failing health, speed was of the essence.”

“You, my lord, waited a few days for the hue and cry to die down”, Sherlock went on. “then arranged for Prior Richard to come to bring your regular supply of herbs and spices. One of the bottles that he brought contained the same belladonna-infected sage that had poisoned the brothers the week before; most would think it just unlucky that that a rogue bottle had evaded detection. But the belladonna in the bottle was not enough to kill a man, as with the brothers earlier. There was more.”

He turned to the doctor. 

“Lord Horsington recently sent round to tell you that a servant had dropped his bottle of heart-medicine”, he said. “You, knowing how important that medicine was, provided him with a replacement immediately.”

“I did”, the doctor said warily. “But how did you know that?”

I suddenly saw it.

“Of course!” I blurted out. “Heart-medicine. The standard treatment for an irregular heartbeat is digitalis, the drug found in belladonna!”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “You, my lord, made sure that the digitalis from your _not_ broken bottle was dispersed around your pretend cousin's meal so that he would receive a fatal dose. There was nothing in the wine and you ate but a little of the potatoes which you knew had a very small dosage. Unfortunately for your scheming, you were also greedy. You went to the Navigation Inn for a meal barely an hour before you ate, then claimed that you were still distracted by your confessional so did not feel hungry.”

Lord Horsington dragged himself to his feet and stared down the table at my friend.

“I may have been caught”, he said, “but I shall die before your idea of justice can be done. The real Mr. Alexander Hill was the last of his line, so these lands _will_ be restored to the Holy Mother Church despite you and your feeble efforts, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock smiled dangerously.

“I think not.”

“What do you mean?” Prior Richard demanded, also rising to his feet. 

Sherlock reached down for the small folder that was lying on the table in front of him and extracted an official-looking document. He read from it.

“Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage”, he quoted. “Mr. Jacob Ian Horsington, bachelor, to Miss Mabel Ann Rhynes, spinster.”

The sergeant spluttered a sudden cough. Sherlock turned to him.

“When I saw you by that portrait I knew that you were Lord Edwin's blood”, he said. “Mr. Jacob Horsington contracted with Miss Mabel Rhynes in 'Sixty-Two and _you_ were the result, the marriage taking place soon after but in secret as the family considered it somewhat of an embarrassment. Your mother had the idea of giving you a name to distantly claim your paternity, 'chevalier' being the French for 'horseman'.”

“You bastard!” Prior Richard exclaimed. “You lie!”

“You may see the documents”, Sherlock said airily. “All copies, so do not trouble yourself to destroy them.”

The sergeant pulled himself up to his full impressive height.

“Prior, my lord” he said stonily. “I am going to have to ask you both to accompany me to the police-station.”

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Postscriptum: Lord Horsington was proven right about his evading justice as he died just two days after the dramatic revelations at the Abbey Grange. Sergeant Wilberforce Rhynes-Chevalier became Wilberforce, Lord Horsington, and with three young boys of his own the line was again secured. Prior Richard had many years in an English jail to rue his part in a murder, and I suspect only the fact that he had not acted alone and the death of his accomplice led a jury to very generously spare his wretched neck. Sherlock and I both laughed when, one month later, we received a photograph through the general post showing the new lord of the manor and his family, the sergeant still in the uniform of the post that he had declined to surrender.

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	12. Case 241: The Adventure Of The Winterborne Windfall ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. In a strange affair that takes the dynamic duo back to rural Dorsetshire for a fourth time, Sherlock has to solve the problem of getting a large sum of money out of London without being detected – in order to fulfil the last request a man who is about to be hung. This case was.... different!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There are few places grimmer in this world that a London gaol, and I shuddered as we entered Pentonville's forbidding portals. I had been asked to come and see one Mr. Cuthbert White, condemned to be hung in three days' time after one of the boldest and most brazen thefts of recent years. He had broken into the London house of Lord Grandison Brown, the owner of one of the largest banks in the capital, and stolen his chest of two thousand sovereigns which, more than a little ostentatiously, the nobleman had had displayed in a large glass urn in his hallway. Ostentatiously and foolishly; although Mr. White had swiftly been arrested there had been neither hide nor hair of the coins. 

Normally of course the act of theft, however serious in itself, does not result in a hanging. I had wondered if the unpleasant Lord Brown might try to call me in on the matter (I would have declined because I knew him to be an exceptionally vile individual). However while escaping from Lord Brown’s house Mr. White had been pursued by the nobleman’s equally vile son Grendon who, in trying to intercept him, had leaped from a balcony onto a stone pavement and landed head-first, dying almost instantly. It therefore became a matter of at least manslaughter, and Lord Brown had enough weight (certainly with his figure!) with the judiciary to ensure that when captured, Mr. White would be heading straight for the gallows.

I had read of all this in the ‘Times’ and had considered that Mr. White would be no great loss to humanity. Or so I had thought until I received a letter from him asking to see me. Even more oddly, the crime had happened a full month ago yet he had asked to see me only three days before his execution.

“What can this fellow want with us?” John wondered. I knew that he was anxious at having to be among all these criminals without his gun, for he stuck closer to me than usual.

“He must have some request to make of me”, I said. “I have no idea what it can be, although I must say that the delay in his request strikes me as odd.”

“Why do you think that is?” he asked.

“I think he must have known that I would use the time to uncover his motive for the theft”, I said. “Miss St. Leger proved as effective as always; the barely legal activities and financial sharp practices of Lord Brown destroyed Mr. White's father, drove his mother into an asylum and led his only sibling, his sister Charlotte, to attempt to take her own life. Clearly he therefore had more than ample motive for the theft but why bring me in on it, and what can he possibly expect of me?”

“You are known for following justice over the law”, John pointed out. “He must know that.”

I suspected that he was right. Oddly given our grim location I was quite intrigued over this.

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Mr. Cuthbert White was a singularly unimpressive person, at least physically. I did not however make the mistake of settling on that as an assessment; he had got past some formidable security systems at Smasham House and had contrived to hide his loot somewhere that no-one could find it (both Gregson and LeStrade had told me that the Metropolitan Police Service had been ordered to leave no stone unturned; naturally they had had to come round on one of Mrs. Malone's baking days to tell us that!).

The warden glared at me when I asked him to leave us alone, but complied.

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen”, Mr. White said, his voice as small as he was. “I have three days left on this earth and I would like to ask a favour of you.”

“Does it concern any criminality?” I asked.

“It concerns justice”, he said with a small smile. “I would like you to deliver some. To a large number of people.”

He sighed heavily.

“I am sure that you used the time between my letter and today wisely, to look into the vile scum that is Lord Grandison Brown”, he said. “He nearly destroyed my family, and my sister only survived because her doctor nursed her back from the brink. They are engaged now which is good, but is to justice that I look as my hours grow ever more few. Do you happen to know where Lord Brown's country seat is?”

I looked expectantly at someone who hardly ever read the social pages of the newspaper except when they just happened to be open and he just happened to have been passing them with a few spare moments to hand. He pouted far too adorably for such a dark place as this.

“Upper Houghton Hall, in Dorsetshire”, he said. “Not far from the Boscombe Valley where we met the horrible Mr. Merriweather.”

“I grew up within sight of what would become the Browns' house”, Mr. White said, “before I came to London to try to make my fortune. It was not long after I left Dorsetshire that Mr. Brown acquired the place and became the original blot on that county's landscape. The river that runs through the valley is called the Winterborne, appropriately enough because that is what it is, a river that runs only in winter. Except that Lord Brown diverted most of the water to have a nice lake for his garden, leaving the villagers to go thirsty.”

“That sounds very much like him”, John agreed.

Mr. White leaned forward.

“I have put the money in a safe place”, he said, “and what I wish for is that you gentleman take it back to the valley for me.”

We both looked at him in confusion.

“Why?” I asked.

“They are all good church-going folks there”, he said, “and I loved going to a different church from time to time. I was happy there, and I want to repay that happiness. Can you find a way to use this Sunday’s services to get the money out to the worshippers in a single day, a sovereign† for each man, women and child?”

“Is there enough money for that?” John asked. He nodded.

“Before I did the job, I looked up the last census”, he said. “About fifteen hundred all told, from Houghton down to Almer. Any money left over you can split between the seven churches in the valley.”

He took a deep breath and looked hard at me.

“You have rightly reasoned that Lord Brown will be having you watched in an attempt to find his money”, I said, “and that even if I do get the money to these people he will then endeavour to snatch it back.”

“Got it in one!” he smiled.

“We must thank the Lord for the telegraphic system, then”, I said. “Because the wires between here and Dorsetshire are about to be set alight!”

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I was not surprised that when we took a cab back to Baker Street, we were followed all the way. If Lord Brown thought that I was about to head off on my travels at this time on a Friday night, then he really was as stupid as he looked!

“But they will try to follow us to Dorsetshire, will they not?” John asked. “I am definitely taking my gun.”

“That is good”, I said, “but I am planning a diversion.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“What sort of diversion?” he asked.

“That is for me to know and you to try to get out of me!” I said primly.

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Give the man his due, he tried, and when he had me upside-down while he was fucking me I was tempted to tell him. But then he went and pouted so damn adorably, that just made me want to prolong the... well, it was far, far from agony, I can tell you!

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The next day was Saturday, two days until the execution. I would have liked to have done the necessary today but the Sabbath was the only day suitable for my arrangements so I had to be patient. Besides, we were still being watched from across the road, day and night. But while we were sitting here and going nowhere, my agents were quietly moving a small yet heavy crate from a house in the docks to Waterloo Station, where it would be shipped down to deepest Dorsetshire.

“This is odd”, John said from where he was reading the paper. 

“What?” I asked.

“They talk about the hanging and they say that he comes from a valley to the _west_ of Dorchester”, he said. “I am sure that it was to the east.”

“It is.”

He looked at me with that adorable confusion that made me regret for once that there was bacon on the table. Otherwise it would have been back to his room straight away for seconds. His eyes widened as he quite correctly discerned my thoughts.

“Sherlock!”

I sighed and finished my (and half of his) bacon before continuing. 

“I paid the writer of that article to mislead Lord Brown”, I said, “in case he thinks to send ahead to anticipate our next move. There are two winter-flowing valleys in Dorsetshire, the Winterbourne with a 'u' west of the Dorchester, and Mr. White's which is the Winterborne without a 'u' some way east. We shall be heading for the latter in the small hours of tomorrow morning, I am afraid.”

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That evening two gentlemen were admitted via 221B's back door and shown up to our rooms. They were dressed in perfect copies of our regular clothes, even up to a fair copy of my beloved deer-stalker hat. I switched off the light and after a few minutes we saw the two emerge and leap into a cab that was driven away southwards at speed. Barely moments later a second cab emerged from the darkness of the Park end of the road and sped after them.

“Where are they going?” John asked as we returned to our chairs. 

“Luke hired a special for me, headed for Portishead near Bristol”, I said. “I had one of Miss St. Leger's agents slip Lord Brown the information that Mr. White once had a girlfriend from there, one that he still hankered after. We shall have a few hours before we too have to leave, so I suggest that we get some sleep.”

“Are you not afraid that Lord Brown will try to have the train stopped?” he asked.

“I had Luke advise the Great Western that this is a Matter Of International Delicacy”, I said. “By the time my adversary's agents reach Bristol they will learn that two gentlemen encumbered with a large box have just left up the branch to Portishead. Since there are several stops along that line they will not be sure just where they might get off, so that should keep him busy for most of the Sabbath.”

He smiled and we went to grab some sleep before our own departure.

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We left via the back door, leaving into the alleyway along the back of 221B before heading through to Siddons Lane where we had a short walk to find a cab to take us to Waterloo. 

“I am afraid that there is no first-class accommodation on this parliamentary train”, I said ruefully, “but I did not wish to risk any delays. We only have today to put things to rights before Mr. White meets his Maker.”

He nodded and we boarded the London & South Western Railway train to Weymouth. It was as I had expected far from fast, but it sufficed and a few hours later we were getting out at Wareham, where we had changed not so long ago for our adventure in nearby Corfe Castle and Swanage (The Adventure Of The Purbeck Killing). We were then able to hire a carriage and set off into the Dorsetshire countryside. It was a beautiful June Sabbath morn and two of the churches that we passed were already ringing their bells to summon the faithful to prayer. 

We drove across some mostly empty country passing only through one village, Morden, and eventually reached a road running from west to east. A little way along it we turned off at signpost to Almer and Mapperton. John looked at me expectantly.

“We are now in the valley”, I said. “It joins the much larger River Stour a couple of miles east of here at Sturminster Marshall, but Almer is the first village in the valley itself.”

“It is lovely and quiet”, he said.

I smiled and waited for him to notice.

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It was _too_ quiet. We passed through Mapperton, then Winterbornes Zelston, Tomson, Anderson, Muston and Kingston in quick succession, but there seemed nary a soul about, nor were there any more church bells. That was until we approached Winterborne Whitechurch which was astride a main road, and suddenly there were people filling the roads and heading towards the church.

“I asked the six other valley priests to get their congregations to come here”, I explained. “I told them that we were lawyers administering the estate of a former valley resident who wished to leave them something, but only to those who were faithful enough to attend church.”

Our progress now slowed considerably but we managed to make it to the impressively large church. The priests had set up a large table and even a stage in the field opposite the church. Two of them approached us when they saw us; one short and the other tall.

“I am Reverend Martin of this parish”, the shorter one said, “and this is my neighbour from Kingston, the Reverend Peters. Are you sure that this is quite all right, Mr Holmes?”

“Few things in this world of ours are _all_ right”, I said, perhaps a touch evasively given that I was speaking to a Man of God, “but this is I think the best solution which will bring the greatest amount of happiness to the greatest number of people. We shall just move this crate over to your stage and then one of you can address the valley folks.”

“James can do that”, the Reverend Martin said. “He is far and away the best speaker among us.”

John and I moved the heavy crate onto the stage just behind the table where the vicars were assembling. The Reverend Peters leaped quite athletically up onto the stage and called the people to attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he boomed. “Thank you for coming. As we explained to you all via church notice, a rich gentleman possessed of a large sum of money wished to divide it among the good folk of this valley. He therefore instructed that all those who attended this Sunday service at one of our seven churches – I trust you can see the reason for the changed times now – should receive the sum of one sovereign. Man, woman and child.”

There were gasps from the assembled throng, which had to be in excess of a thousand people. Clearly they had been expecting something more along the lines of pennies, shillings at best.

“If those with children would approach the clerical bench first”, the reverend said. “We are _mostly_ honest men here and we all know each other well, so I am sure that no-one will 'accidentally' acquire several extra children in the next few minutes. Once everyone has been deal with the remaining sum will be split in proportion between the seven churches for the welfare of the poor and needy.”

The atmosphere was still one of stunned amazement, but the people moved slowly into some sort of order. Not as much stunned amazement as there would be when Lord Brown found out about this, I thought with a smile.

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I had actually planned a set of contingencies to counter any moves the nobleman might make to try to reclaim his money, but as it turned out I did not have to. As I had arranged, news of the valley's good fortune was flashed to London by telegraph once everyone had got their money, and it reached Lord Grandison Brown that same evening. 

_The shock killed him!_

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They hung Mr. Cuthbert White the following day. I saw him one last time before he went – sadly I did not trust the prison staff not to pass on the news I had sent him of both my success in executing his wishes and the demise of his target – and he thanked me quietly for what I had done. I left him a contented if not a happy man, ready to meet his Maker and to settle his final account once and for all.

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Postscriptum: There were some rumblings from the sons of Mr. Brown about legal efforts to recover their father's funds, but a few carefully-placed articles about certain questionable activities undertaken by some of them discouraged that. Best of all the family sold Upper Houghton Hall, upon which the new owner restored the river to what it had been.

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_Notes:_   
_† A sovereign (i.e. one pound) in 1897 would be worth at least £110 ($135) at 2020 prices. However the effect of such an amount on the dirt-poor people of rural Dorsetshire would have been infinitely greater._

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	13. Case 242: The Adventure Of The Fiery Blaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. A fortune cookie is only a small thing – but this one has a warning that comes true all too quickly and brings someone back into the duo's life whom John does not like at all! Meanwhile the unpleasant Mr. Mycroft Holmes makes several bad errors of judgment and pays several painful prices.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

The capital was finally about to embark on the celebrations to mark Her Majesty's sixty years on the throne, when this next case came upon us both. It was a strange little affair which started with an evening out, went on to feature one of John's least favourite gentlemen on the entire planet, and ended with a divorce, albeit one that had been 'on the cards' as they say for some considerable time. But I am getting ahead of myself.

John has just made a quite predictable remark about 'getting head'. He really is quite dreadful as of late. I shall have to defer my notes while I 'see' to him.

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We had gone out for a celebratory dinner after an article in the 'Times' which had revealed that John's literary efforts had acquired yet another reader, to wit a certain lady who lived at the end of The Mall. Such royal patronage would surely boost the already high sales of his works even more, and I was happy both that he had achieved success and that he was financially set for life, though of course we both knew that if he had had any problems in that area then I would have stepped in immediately.

There was also a small family reason to celebrate on my side, as my half-nephew Lord Harry Hawke was a father again, his wife having given birth to a second daughter Elizabeth (as mentioned before, Lady Hawke's middle and preferred name). I was a little anxious that he only had the two sons one of whom he had named for his ill-starred father, but there was little that I could do except to be the boys' distant guardian angel. Their half-great-uncle if there was such a thing.

We had chosen a highly-commended Chinese restaurant for our evening out, who proved worthy of their increasing fame as the meal was both pleasant and filling (not, as some bastard across the table from me slyly suggested, ‘stuffing’!). Indeed when the fortune cookies arrived at the end I retaliated by saying that maybe my love was so full, he might not be able to manage his.

“I could manage this and a bar of chocolate!” he boasted, opening his cookie.

“That is good”, I said, “because I sent out for six of those layered chocolate squares that you like from your favourite shop in Paddington before we left. They should have been delivered in our absence.”

He gave me a look of such loving devotion that I was sorely tempted to do something that would have gotten us barred from this place and most certainly on the front pages of the 'Times' for some days thereafter. Instead I opened my own cookie and was about to read it when I noticed how quiet John had gone.

“What is it?” I asked.

“'Something sweet awaits you at home'”, he said, clearly surprised.

“That is not completely true”, I smiled. “I am still here!”

He chuckled at me as I read my own destiny.

“'Go fish!'”

We both stared at each other. What on earth...?

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As the Fates would have it I was gentle with John that evening as I knew he had a rare call to make the following day. Although he had now ceased full-time work at his surgery he still catered for some of the place's richer clientele whom he had always attended and who did not like change, as well as helping out at busy times. I privately thought this being far more generous that the surgery deserved; they may have shown some flexibility in the past before he and I became more well-known but they had benefited massively as a result, and as I have said before I had occasionally had to have had a Word when they had abused his inherent good nature.

Of course when I had said all this to John one time he had sniggered at the word 'flexibility'. He really was quite dreadful. _Fortunately!_

Our landlady Mrs. Malone knew quite well not to disturb us before a decent hour of a morning, if only because her maids might need to start receiving therapy as a result and not as 'someone' claimed because I was 'not exactly a morning person' (I was perfectly fine after my fourth coffee). So when the bell rang to announce a visitor and a card was pushed under our door at the ungodly hour of five minutes past eight, I was both surprised and alarmed. That had only happened two times before; once with LeStrade for what actually had been an emergency, and once (almost inevitably) with Randall for what had not and had resulted in his being slapped so hard on the landing that Miss Thackeray had heard it from her room on the ground floor (her mother had unfortunately been away at the time otherwise my brother would also have had a backside full of grapeshot to worry about). What was it this time?

John picked up the card and read it. His face darkened at once. Lord, it _was_ my brother!

“Randall?” I asked. 

To my surprise he shook his head.

“Worse!” he growled. “You had better get dressed.”

He passed the card to me and I read the name on it. 

'Go fish'. _Of course!_

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I rang the bell back and some fifteen minutes later Miss Thackeray showed our visitor up. She would not have had to have been any sort of detective to have worked out very quickly that something was amiss. I was in my usual chair but John was standing right behind me, his hand on my shoulder with his ring prominently displayed and glaring murderously at our visitor. There may or may not also have been some coughing that an uncharitable landlady's niece might just have maliciously misinterpreted as defensive growling. Possibly.

I was surprised that she made it out of the door with a smirk that wide!

Our guest bowed and took a seat. Nearly two decades since we had first met yet he still looked like he was barely out his teen years, although I supposed that in his profession that was understandable. Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, formerly Lowen the Scilly Islands fisherman who had ferried us to Annet in the horrible Repellent Philanthropist case back in 'Seventy-Nine and who had also warned us of the vile Mr. Morton Mathews out to take my life in those dark days before Professor Moriarty had been despatched to his rightful place in Hades. 

This young fellow had a penchant for danger and had 'chanced to call round' several times when John was not there, most times with suggestions as to certain things we might like to try. Which reminded me; I owed him thanks for that leather harness idea. _Assuming that John did not kill him today!_

“Possessive as ever, Doctor Watson”, the young fellow smiled. “Rather ironic when one considers that you have seen so much more of me than I have ever seen of your friend here.”

John blushed at that. Although my half-brother Campbell was well into his retirement with Alan (and Alan was well into him from his last letter; I had terrible relatives even at a safe distance!), the love of my life still treated all the 'boys' at what was now our friend Sweyn's molly-houses free of charge, the Ado... the fellow before us included. Not happily in Lowen's case; there had definitely been some unhappy muttering the last time that he had returned to Baker Street and had found the fellow there needing a check-up, although fortunately he had not managed to link that visit with my introduction of a certain piece of military equipment into our encounters the subsequent evening. Although that had likely been because he had been incapable of managing anything!

I really wished that our visitor would stop smiling like that. It was only making matters worse. Then again a riled John was always that much more aggressive... I supposed that yes, there _were_ compensations.

“I am seeking Mr. Holmes's help in a family matter”, our visitor said sitting himself down elegantly in the fireside chair. I noted that John had still not moved to his usual table to take notes and patted his hand. He spared our visitor one last baleful look before moving away but I could sense his unease.

“How may we be of assistance?” I asked, not smirking at all (I actually was not as John was now watching me with suspicion). 

“I have an elder brother, Blaze, who came to London some years before me”, Lowen said. He noted our surprise and smiled. “A Cornish name like my old one; there is a town called St. Blazey in our fair county. We rarely see each other – he was initially not happy with what one might call my choice of lifestyle but he came to accept it – and yesterday should have been our first meeting for a little over two years. He took service when he came here and recently obtained a position as valet to a fellow out in Pinner, Middlesex.”

I wondered that that ‘fellow’ rather than the more usual ‘gentleman’. And as things turned out, I was to be proven all too right over that.

“You believe that something has happened to him?” I asked.

“That he did not turn up for our meeting was, I am afraid, too much like him”, our visitor sighed. “He is something of a bean-pole, like a thinner version of Sal at the house, and at times as much of a feather-head too. But he is a decent fellow and I worry about him.”

I knew from what Lowen had told me one time that he had rather more than a crush on the swarthy yet handsome Mr. Salerio Palazzi at the molly-house, the latter being an Italian who most definitely lived up to that old legend about Italian men (John had been very quiet after the first time he had examined him and I had almost been tempted to leave a ruler out later that day 'by accident', but he had recently bought me extra barley-sugar so I had generously desisted). Unfortunately Mr. Palazzi was married and despite his job the Cornishman was a deeply moral fellow. 

“Our late and unlamented father used to scoff that my brother had his head in the clouds in every sense”, Lowen sighed. “That was cruel but arguable. Yet....”

He stopped, frowning.

“Blaze is terrible at expressing himself, but you will be hard put to find a more decent fellow out of Cornubia. He sent me a telegram a few months ago and I had the distinct impression that his new post was not working out. He has only had two jobs; I happen to know the gentleman who he first worked for as his brother was once a client of mine and they own a gymnasium over in Harrow that I have used myself on occasion – I believe that he allows Blaze to go there for free, such was his regard for him – but I do not know his current employer.”

“Why do you not just go and see him yourself?” John asked suspiciously.

Our visitor looked at him knowingly again (which I knew would annoy him) and smiled beatifically (which I knew would annoy him yet more). I really had to start having him over more often. Maybe I could even arrange for him and Benji to call together....

“I am afraid that for all his fine qualities”, he said with a sigh, “my brother lives up to his name when it comes to his temper. Even I, who have to deal with more than my share of physical gentlemen, am truly afraid of him when he gets mad. It rarely happens but when it does, it is advisable to relocate oneself to a neighbouring county as soon as possible!”

He saw my surprise and nodded.

“The year before he died, our father came up to London to seek Blaze out and to try to force him to return home”, he said. “Father always was the violent sort, but even he should have known better than to provoke his eldest son. He was three weeks abed as a result; I do not think that he ever fully recovered as he died less than six months later. Few things scare me in this world of ours but my brother's temper is not something that I would like to risk incurring.”

“So you would rather that he hit Sherlock instead?” John asked sharply.

Lowen shot him another smile. There was definitely some grinding of teeth from the direction of a medical personage in the room.

“Blaze is a great follower of your writings, doctor”, the Cornishman said easily, “and as I said his temper takes a lot of provoking. He would never lay a finger on Mr. Holmes. Not that there are some people in this city of ours who would wish to lay rather more than just a finger on him.”

I smiled at the _innuendo_. John looked suspiciously at our visitor. 

“The only thing that I may know about Blaze's employer is that he may be a fan of your writings”, Lowen said. “Something he said after he stared there made me think that, although again I may have misunderstood; he is a hard man to read. I do not think that my brother is happy there, which worries me as he really is the most affable of fellows.”

“Families can be difficult things”, I sympathized, thinking that I had just made an entry for Understatement of the Decade there. “Yes, Lowen, we will go to Pinner for you and seek out your brother so that we can put your mind at rest.”

He somehow contrived to both smile and leer at me at one and the same time. That was most definitely a growl from someone in the vicinity.

“Thank you, sir.”

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_But we will not be going today_ , I thought hazily as John thrust into me once more. I had seen our guest out and flipped across the ingenious little red slider we had had fitted to the door some time back and which alerted the maids to not even knock as the gentlemen inside were 'busy'. Then, being perhaps less than one hundred per cent nice, I had returned and made several comments about how well our newest client was looking _for a man still in his mid-thirties_ , until I had seen John's eyes go dark.

We would go to Middlesex tomorrow. _Assuming that I could still walk by then!_

I grabbed tightly onto the man holding me as he came with a guttural cry, then eased me down onto our bed. Even with his more solid frame it had to be tiring carrying me around our main room while having his way with me, but I knew how insecure he could be in the presence of other men and that the best way to remedy that was to let him have his way with me. 

Repeatedly. 

Because I was good like that.

“Mine!” he snarled and he easily turned me onto my front and lay himself all over me, covering me completely. “All mine!”

“Definitely yours”, I agreed as I felt his tired body all over mine. “Rest now.”

“Rest”, he yawned in agreement.

“But I still think that he is quite good-looking....”

“Sherlock!”

I smirked. Another day definitely not wasted!

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I had by this time had my own leather harness made (at a shop some distance across town!) and John almost cried when I asked him to fit it to me the following morning. The studs that bound it together had his name on them and I promised him that I would not be taking it off until that evening when he would get to 'unwrap' me. It was worth being kept in a permanent state of semi-arousal all day (those straps went _everywhere!)_ to see the look of happiness on his face. I would do whatever it took to keep that look there.

We took an underground train to Pinner, which fortuitously was on the same Metropolitan Railway which ran through Baker Street. We passed Harrow and I smiled at the memory of Mrs. Arlesburgh whom we had helped some nine years back in the case of the Crooked Man that had secured our friend LeStrade his long-deserved promotion. Miss Gladys Arlesburgh née Branson, the young girl over whom our help had been sought back then, was thirteen years of age now and from her last letter to me was doing very well at a school in this town.

The metropolis seemed as uninspiring as ever and although Pinner was still a village there were ominous signs that the advancing tide of the city was beginning to wash over it. Chapel Street, which was the only clue that Lowen had been able to provide to his brother's workplace, was quite close to the station, a long and winding thoroughfare with houses along its northern side and bordered to the south by a small but attractive parkland. I noted that while most of the houses were what one might have expected with copious grounds and screened off from the road, there was a small development by the station where one house had clearly been removed and replaced by a set of rather mean terraces. Progress, I supposed.

We asked at three of the larger houses if anyone knew of Mr. Blaze Trevelyan. The first two yielded nothing but the third door was opened by a worried-looking maid who bade us enter. Just moments later she returned to say that the lady of the house would see us.

Mrs. Yvette Slapper (honestly!) was one of those pampered wives of rich men whose room was in its way a microcosm of her class. It had everything; a scrawny nervous-looking companion (Miss Gibson), a small furry glove-thing masquerading as a dog, expensive yet ugly furniture that frankly I would have paid to have had removed, and a temperature that would have had Bedouin merchants pleading for the heat to be turned down. I was panting by the time we reached the couch where I had to cope with the woman leering at me in a way that I presumed meant she was either suffering an attack of wind or trying to deal with a rogue eyelash.

Evidently the latter as John was growling again, just as the leather was riding up somewhere rather intimate. My life was so hard – and it was not the only thing!

“Of course I know nothing about _servants!”_ she said sniffily when I explained our search. “Although as you are here now, you might have a word with those terrible neighbours of mine. Ever since they moved in there has been nothing but arguing, day and night. This past weekend there was actually what sounded like _gunfire_ coming from the place! In my own Pinner, of all places!”

I bit back a smile at her assumption that because _she_ lived here, gunfire was clearly Not Acceptable.

“You did not report this to the authorities?” I asked.

“I have always said that what goes on in a gentleman's house is his own business unless it affects their neighbours”, she said firmly. “My husband agrees with me on that.”

 _He can likely not get a word in to say otherwise_ , I thought not at all cattily. 

“Do you use your own grounds much, may I ask?” I said.

She looked surprised but answered.

“Only the back garden”, she said. “Why do you ask that?”

“Is there any connection between yours and the neighbour's house?” I said.

“There is a gate in the wall, but of course it is locked”, she said. “Mr. Holmes, what is all this about?”

I took a deep breath.

“It may be the case that someone has come from that house into your garden”, I said. “My inquiries are of course confidential, but I can say that they involve a rather dangerous young fellow and he has done this sort of thing before. May I ask a favour?”

“Yes?” she said, now visibly anxious. 

“Could your companion come out and show me where the gateway is?” I asked. “There may be an element of danger and I would of course not wish to subject your good self to such a thing.”

“Of course not!” she said fervently. “Mabel, go with the gentleman _at once!”_

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Miss Gibson showed us the gateway, and once we were away from her terrible mistress she looked at me sharply.

“I think, Mr. Holmes”, she said, “that what you said to my mistress was, as my dear Albert would say, complete and utter codswallop!”

“Your dear Albert would be quite correct”, I said. “But although I am not always truthful madam, I _am_ observant. When I mentioned Mr. Trevelyan by name _you_ reacted visibly, although you covered it well. What do you know, please?”

She blushed but answered.

“You are not going to like it”, she said nervously.

“Not like what?” John asked.

“I met Mr. Trevelyan one time down at the library, when I was returning my mistress's books for her”, she said. “Such a learnéd gentleman and _so_ handsome; dear Albert was with me at the time and he was quite jealous. You know how some men are.”

John had gone red for some reason. I allowed myself a small(ish) smirk.

“I understand human nature”, I said. “Go on.”

“He – Mr. Trevelyan – took up his post when his people moved here late last year”, she said. “The Cohens. They seemed no better or worse than others around here, I thought, but Mr. Trevelyan said they were always arguing. Also he was not sure, but he thought that they were using false names.”

“Why would they do that?” John asked.

“I have no idea”, she said. “Except...”

She stopped, looking decidedly unsure of herself.

“A few weeks ago we had a letter addressed to their house which came to us in error”, she said. “I chanced to see it before it was taken round – _and the name on it was 'Mr. Holmes'!”_

We both stared at her in astonishment.

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I had thought that life had few surprises left for me at this time, but that day most certainly provided one when we knocked at 'Chimneys' where, hopefully, Mr. Blaze Trevelyan worked. It was definitely not him who opened the door, although as our quarry was a valet that was hardly surprising.

What _was_ surprising was that I did recognize the fellow standing before me, bleeding from what looked very much like a bullet graze on one arm. My deeply unpleasant eldest brother!

Mycroft looked as shocked to see us as I was to see him but he recovered quickly and ushered us inside.

“I suppose that you are as good as anyone!” he said rudely. “You have to stop him!”

I noted that John had covertly got his own gun ready in his jacket pocket. I really should have told him not to. Probably really. I might get round to it some time. Perhaps even today.

“Stop whom?” I asked.

“That bloody valet!” he hissed. “He has Rachael trapped in the back room and he is refusing to let her go.”

I stared suspiciously at him. I knew from long experience that Mycroft had a way of twisting the facts to suit his own ends, and unless his valet had gone mad I saw no reason for such behaviour.

“Why would he do that?” I asked warily.

“Yes, 'Father'. Why _would_ he do that?”

We all turned sharply to see a boy standing at the door, and I sent up a silent complaint to the Lord. _Seriously?_ Master Tantalus Holmes, nearly fourteen years of age now and how even someone as stupid as my brother had failed to see that the boy was not his by this time, I did not know.

To recapitulate, my 'nephew' was all but certainly the offspring of the satyric (John preferred a decidedly more Anglo-Saxon adjective!) Prince Tane of Strafford Island, who since his 'memorable' trip to England in 'Eighty-Two had become King Tane. His official title was 'Father of All Peoples' which, given the way that he had humped his way around the beds, back-rooms and couches of London society during his brief visit some fourteen years back – when a certain medical acquaintance of mine had been _supposed_ to have been keeping an eye on him! – was all too appropriate. Surely the mathematics there plus his hawkish features and darker than usual skin should have twigged even Mycroft to.....

I looked at my blooded brother and understood. They do say that even the slowest tortoises get there in the end.

For all that the boy before us was not yet a teenager his presence dominated the room. Mycroft shrank back before him as bullies always will when faced with someone who stands up to them. My (sort of) nephew turned to face me.

“It took him long enough but your brother finally got it”, he said acidly. “A maid from back then retired and she told him the story of my conception. Hardly immaculate, but then few things are in this world.”

“You bastard!” Mycroft hissed.

“Let me see”, Tantalus said. “Am I the person who verbally and more recently physically abused the lady currently crying upstairs? No. Am I the person who conspired with one brother in an attack on another that nearly scarred him for life, then fled here under a false name to hide from his own mother? No.”

 _“What?”_ John roared. _”He_ was behind that?”

Mycroft looked set to bolt. I would have too, being on the end of that look. The boy continued.

“And now you finally came up against someone who can stand up to you, which I suppose proves that karma is a thing. Be grateful, my so-called father, that he did do that, otherwise I myself would have had to do it!”

“What did he do?” John demanded, still glaring at Mycroft. I was sure I would be able to stop my friend from getting his gun out and shooting my own brother. If the mood took me, which it might well not any time this century. 

“He struck Mother in front of Blaze”, Tantalus said, scowling at the cowering wreck of a man. “Hah, Blaze by name and blaze by nature; he knocked this rat out then picked him up and threw him out of the room. When he tried to get back in, he shot at him. Missed, worse luck.”

Mycroft glared at him but said nothing. He was still clearly terrified that John would set about him.

“Mother will be seeking a divorce”, Tantalus said coolly. “The only thing that you were right about, my so-called father, is that Blaze _does_ have feelings for her. But unlike you he is far too much of a gentleman to have every acted on them with a married lady – even one trapped in a sham of a marriage to the likes of you!.”

“I shall contest any attempt at divorce!” Mycroft said angrily.

“I doubt that”, I smiled. He turned on me.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because if you do”, I said, “our own dear mother will not be pleased. You might remember that after Torver, she said that she will be after the next son to step out of line with her new and powerful six-shooter – _the one with the grape-shot option!”_

Mycroft turned even paler. 

“We shall go and check up on your soon to be ex-wife”, I said. “I strongly recommend that you retire to one of your clubs, Mycroft. You are no longer welcome here.”

I did not fail to notice how the villain that I was unfortunate enough to have as a brother skulked around the room, keeping as far away from John as he could before almost falling through the door. I scribbled a quick note and passed it to one of the servants, then John and I followed Tantalus up the stairs.

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The shocks of that day were not quite done with. We had another one when we reached the room where my sister-in-law and the valet were 'holed up'. Tantalus knocked at a solid-looking door and called through that it was him, then opened it and stepped into the room with us behind him and....

_What the hell was that?_

“It is only me, Blaze”, Tantalus said softly. “I have a doctor here, to see Mother.”

Lowen had been right about his brother's height, but the long time between their meetings had rendered part of his description ever so slightly obsolete. Mr. Blaze Trevelyan looked as if he has spent the last year working out at his gymnasium seven days a week, possibly even eight from the size of him. I did not smile as John moved swiftly behind me and managed what he later claimed had been a high-pitched cough, but it was a close-run thing. 

The mass of human muscle looked uncertainly at us but Tantalus went up to the two of them, kissed his mother and patted the valet on a very broad shoulder.

“He is a fellow of few words”, the boy said comfortingly, “but he is loyal and true, everything that my so-called father is not. Doctor?”

John moved warily across the room and began to check poor Rachael. Mr. Trevelyan was visibly unhappy at that but Tantalus kept his hand on the giant's shoulder and all was well. I would not be teasing John about that later.

Really, I would not. Otherwise he might not let me out of this damn harness, and those leather straps were starting to ride up!

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Postscriptum: Almost predictably Mycroft scurried off to Mother's house so he could put his side of the story first. She listened patiently until he was done and then slapped him so hard that he was barely able to stagger from the room. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology my telegram _had_ got there first.

Rachael got her divorce from Mycroft and custody of all the children except young Midas, which given that child's horrible nature was arguably an added bonus. Mycroft and his sole actual son moved to a new house out in the Home Counties somewhere and we thereafter saw little of either of them. He then had to move three more times because 'someone' kept informing Mother of his latest address, which was so not sad. My former sister-in-law also prevailed upon Mr. Blaze Trevelyan to marry her so that Tantalus acquired a most excellent if silent step-father. Especially in that I could now tell John that he and his favourite Cornish ex-fisherman were all but related.

The resultant pout was _glorious!_

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	14. Interlude: The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. There are worse things about being a teenager than puberty, as someone is about to find out.

_[Narration by Master Tantalus Holmes]_

I sighed as I sat down to breakfast. Cereal _again!_ I had I supposed gotten used to the luxury of cooked breakfasts – Mother loved to cook as it had kept her away from that brute of a soon to be former husband – but now she was upstairs with Blaze.

 _She was upstairs with Blaze_. Despite my best efforts an image of his mother and the silent valet came to mind. Safe to say that they were likely not playing draughts. I shuddered and ate faster to try to get my mind off of.... ugh!

Fortunately for what little remained of my sanity, my mother entered the kitchen looking surprised to find me there. Even better, she was fully dressed! Maybe the Good Lord was not trying to drive me insane after all.

“You did not want to wait for a cooked breakfast, dear?” she asked.

“I have to set off for school in ten minutes”, I said, noting that she blushed slightly at being down rather later than usual for….. whatever reason that I desperately did not want to think about. “Yes, I sorted my own lunch. Yes, I put all the washing in the correct laundry baskets this time. And yes, I remembered my games kit as it is Wednesday.”

She smiled at me but still looked nervous.

“Tantalus dear”, she began in that tone I had come to dread, “Blaze and I..... we...... uh....”

“Spare me the details!” I said quickly. “I am so happy for you but... you _are_ my mother for heaven's sake! I cannot do gym later today and risk thinking of things like that when I am balancing on the beam.”

“Things like what, dear?” she asked far too innocently. “Blaze is a perfect gentleman; in fact he wants to do the whole engagement and proposal thing. He is _so_ romantic!”

I half-expected to see hearts and flowers floating above her head. But despite this being my own mother and all that entailed, I was happy for her, especially considering all that she had been through. I smiled at her and finished my cereal. 

Which was just as well considering what she came out with next.

“Although I did catch him coming out of the bathroom minus his gown this morning”, she smiled. “Such a forgetful boy, although he is definitely not a boy by any 'long' stretch. As I believe your school friends are wont to say, 'whoa mama!'”

“Mother!”

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I was still shaking when I arrived at school. Thirteen years old and being subject to that sort of thing from one's own parents? Well, from one's own mother and the man who...... ugh! What _is_ the modern generation coming to?

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	15. Case 243: The Adventure Of The Locked Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Justice comes down hard and fast on a mass-murderer – but was it divine intervention or was there a human element involved? Sherlock weighs the facts and John wears panties. Because.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case involving the papers of ex-president Murillo.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Mention the word 'bugs' to most people and they will think instinctively of insects (most people; I think instinctively of a certain lounge-lizard relative of Sherlock who needs to be very firmly squashed or at least flushed down the privvy!). For me the word also recalls this bizarre case in the wilds of eastern Essex, an area that feature heavily in my life around that time what with the 'Friesland' case and our second trip to Futility Island with all that ensued from it. Here once more Sherlock showed the difference between justice and the law, where someone did nothing and yet that nothing resulted in a man's death. And as for the means of that death.... it was certainly unusual!

That summer was all about the Diamond Jubilee celebrations to mark Her Majesty's accession to the throne sixty years back, in what looking back seems like another age. Although the multitude of events were on an even more lavish scale than those of the Golden Jubilee ten years before there was also an increased sense of foreboding, not just because of the ambitions of Imperial Germany and the ongoing tensions across the Continent but because we all knew that the dear old queen did not have many years left, and as for her son and heir.... harrumph! 

There were three days of events in the capital after which Her Majesty would adjourn to Portsmouth to review the Fleet. I went to bed on the third day, June the twenty-fourth, feeling exhausted as I had spent that day as a volunteer doctor on call for all the cases of sunstroke and over-exposure that were bound to happen when the bulk of a country descended _en masse_ to a single city for such an occasion. Sherlock, bless the fellow, just held me close that night and I subsided gratefully into his embrace.

I was still tired the following morning though the almost lazy orgasm Sherlock had wrung out of my half-asleep form had helped awaken me. And then knock me out again. Our late breakfast was almost lunch but luckily 'someone' had no problem with bacon for either. I smiled across the table at my beloved, only to see him frowning at the _'Times'._

“Is something wrong?” I asked. I had teased him about looking like that on one occasion by asking if there was a bacon shortage, and he had marched me back to bed and had me screaming for forgiveness (all right, and for him to carry on). And the bastard had left me to go back to his beloved bacon and made me wait for at least two hours (he had later 'claimed' that it was only six minutes but clearly he had done something to the bedroom clock). Harrumph again!

“There has been a violent hailstorm in Essex”, he said, reading the article. “Widespread damage has been reported over an area of one hundred square miles. One man has been killed.”

“Death by hailstorm”, I mused. “Surely the ultimate Act of God.”

“In this case”, he said, “it may not have been.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I rubbed my leg lazily against his under the table and he gave me a warning growl which of course made me instantly hard. 

Almost instantly. Still, not bad for a forty-five-year-old.

“The dead man was one Mr. Salvatore Murillo, former president of the Republic of San Quentin”, he said with a lazy smile. “He fled to England earlier this year when there was yet another takeover of his country, this time with him on the receiving end. He had ruled for barely six months but in that time had killed or ordered killed over a thousand people and most probably more, before fleeing with a large part of the country's treasury.”

 _He who lives by the sword_ , I thought wryly, continuing to rub my leg against Sherlock's. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“I think that there is more to this story than meets the eye”, he said. “That, and the fact that Luke has said that he wishes to call round.”

He growled again as my leg reached further across, then moved suddenly and swiftly round the table. Before I could gather my wits he had one hand inside my dressing-gown and.... oh my God!

“Such a good boy!” he praised. “Luke will be here in just over an hour. I think that gives us plenty of time do you not?”

“Yes!” I surely qualified as a choirboy at Westminster Abbey with that pitch. Then he was teasing my balls and after just a few more strokes I came with a moan, tears in my eyes. 

“One”, he muttered. 

“One?” I questioned, puzzled.

He gently stood me up and guided me into his room before laying me gently out on the bed. I lay there still shattered by my recent orgasm but as he swiftly undressed I found myself rising to attention again with an impressive turn of speed.

“Now for two”, he muttered moving closer.

_Hot damn!_

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“Would you like another cushion, doctor?”

I scowled at Sherlock's cousin who looked smugly at the pair of us. I think even the worst policeman in the Metropolis would not have had any trouble working out what had just happened in these rooms in the past hour judging from my bedraggled state. To cap it all Sherlock looked as unruffled as he always did at such times, which was just not fair!

The damnable thing was that I _would_ have liked another cushion. Sherlock had reached four in his 'counting lesson' earlier and had had to wake me up when his smirking cousin had arrived far too soon for my liking.

“Stop teasing him, Luke”, Sherlock said equably. “How is Benji?”

“Still over the moon that he had twins this time, with Walter and Bertha Junior”, he said. “Two christenings meant of course twice the angst, so I had to put up with being carried around on the Banjax for several hours until he had finally got it out of his system. And into mine!”

“I am surprised that you can see anything after that, given how huge he is”, Sherlock smiled.

“Maybe John should write about that sort of thing in his stories”, his cousin grinned. “Half the ladies in the capital are sure that that is what happens anyway and that has not stopped them yet. Or any leering hunky rower.”

“Not forgetting young Cornish ex-fisherman and handsome Irish doctors”, Sherlock agreed.

“I could send Benji round as well”, said someone I no longer liked one little bit.

“I am _here_ you know!” I said testily. They both laughed, the bastards. I would have pouted but complicated facial expressions were beyond what was left of me just then. I pouted inside, anyway. 

“So”, Sherlock said settling himself down and unwrapping a barley-sugar. “What does our pest of a brother want this time?”

“His Malodorous Majesty is worried over this death by hailstorm in Essex”, his cousin said, accepting a sweet (one of the mint humbugs we kept for visitors, I noted, not one of my insatiable sex maniac’s beloved barley-sugars). “This mess all began back in 1860 when the British government very unwisely yielded to pressure from the Americans and leased the Mosquito Coast, one of our two Central American possessions, to the state of Nicaragua. Our cousins over there have been growing very tetchy about European holdings on what they regard as solely their continent, despite the rather long border with British Canada. Three years ago the Nicaraguans went and annexed the territory and we lost considerable face because our treaties with the Americans meant that we could do nothing.”

“San Quentin is barely twenty miles across from end to end but it is its position in the region that makes it important, where Nicaragua meets Honduras. They also own one small island far out into the Gulf of Mexico so their reach extends a long way for such a micro-nation. The French as everyone knows tried and failed to build a canal across the isthmus further down in Colombia, but although they are trying to start it up again the Americans want to take it over because it will enable their ships to go between their two coasts without sailing all the way round Cape Horn, which I suppose is understandable. San Quentin's position is therefore important – a potential pro-European power near their potential canal – and the latest administration in the capital of the same name is pro-British which has annoyed Washington no end as they helped get rid of the old one.”

“Are you saying that the country's ex-president was murdered?” I ventured. “By whom?”

“The list of suspects would surely fill a book”, Mr. Garrick said acidly, “if not a set of encyclopaedias! Mr. Salvatore Murillo still has some supporters back in San Quentin so dispatching him removes a source of potential danger to the new regime; you can hardly rally around a corpse although you never know these days! The Americans, Nicaraguans and Hondurans might all think that doing it would earn them kudos in the eyes of the new regime.”

“Popular fellow!” I snarked.

“Murder by a foreign power on British soil”, Sherlock said thoughtfully. “That could have some unpleasant repercussions.”

“Indeed”, Mr. Garrick said. “President McKinley is also likely to intervene soon in the mess that the Spanish are making of nearby Cuba, so there is that to add to the mix.”

“Where did Mr. Murillo die? Sherlock asked.

“A tiny place called Uxley in Essex”, his cousin said. “The back end of the back end of beyond although the area, the Hundred of Dengie, sticks out into the North Sea not far south of your Futility Island.”

That was one of those moments that I wished I was better at concealing my emotions. Both men noticed at once.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked. I hesitated.

“One of the people who writes to me regularly about your adventures lives in Uxley”, I said. “A lady by the name of Mrs. Melody Wing.”

“Part of your 'harem'?” his cousin smirked. I scowled at him, and even that hurt.

“She has supported my efforts for many a year”, I said stiffly, “right from the 'Gloria Scott' case. She is the president of the Bradwell and Uxley Grammatical Society, a local reading and writing club.”

“B.U.G.S!” Mr. Garrick snorted. “Sherlock, I think that you may have a rival for the doctor's affections.”

“Not if he knows what is good for him”, Sherlock said primly.

How I managed to blush when my body was diverting most of my blood flow to my lower brain I had no idea. But I did.

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Sherlock had recently had a four-poster bed installed in his room, which I had thought a little extravagant. However that night I found out just why. After tying my wrists to the top corner posts he let down a thick strap of leather that ran from side to side with loops at each end, inserting my socked feet through each loop. I was trussed up more effectively that any Christmas goose and damn if that did not make me hard within seconds. Sherlock grinned evilly and positioned himself at my entrance.

“John?” he said carefully.

“Mwah?” (I was impressed that I managed that much, if truth be told).

“Tell me about this Mrs. Melody Wing.”

I stared up at him incredulously. _Now?_

“That is”, he added, “if you wish to come tonight.”

I suddenly felt the click of the cock-ring around my base and my eyes widened. Then he was pushing our largest dildo slowly inside me and damn if the bastard wasn't teasing my prostate. My cock strained against the ring and I whined piteously.

“Tell me”, he whispered. “We have all night.”

I was already crying and the thought of this agony being prolonged for hours – no I could not bear it. Rather than 'chicken out' and call an end to this divine torture I forced myself to speak.

“She wrote to me when the 'Gloria Scott' case was published in the 'Strand' magazine back in 'Eighty”, I ground out. “Please!”

He teased my prostate still further and added to my agony by gently tweaking my nipples. I knew that words would only get harder (like something else!) and hurried on.

“She was just finishing school then, her parents having come over from America to live in Essex”, I managed. “She is married to an Englishman and they have three children Lord have mercy!”

And with that he changed his angle and went straight for my prostate. I was not even aware of his slipping off the cock-ring but he must have done for I came with a guttural roar that shook me to the core before falling back into my trussed position. He gently removed my feet from the leather loops, allowing me to collapse into an untidy heap of broken humanity.

“You should call in and see her”, he said gently kissing his way down my chest as he wiped me down. “I am sure that she would appreciate that.”

I smiled weakly before I realized just where he was going with that mouth of his. Oh my poor broken body!

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I do not think that I was ever more grateful for both our solid financial situations and Sherlock's predilection for first-class travel, for I was still incredibly sore when we set out from Baker Street the following day. The cab ride across the city to Liverpool Street was sheer bloody agony, not helped by a certain blue-eyed genius's knowing smirk. He had also insisted, despite the fact that we did not know how long we would be away for, that I wear his favourite pair of blue and black panties which meant I would be greeting one of my readers in the knowledge that..... 

I was so whipped! But at least the silk was comfortable.

The compartment that we boarded at Liverpool Street Station was nice enough and I enjoyed being able to lift the arm-rests and lie on my side along the length of the seat, trying to ignore both the ticket-collector's glare and Sherlock's hungry look that told me I would be in for a rough night tonight. But I was a manly man and I could handle it. Or if not, then at least both Stevie and Sherlock would benefit from that life-insurance policy.

We had to change at Wickford Junction for the branch-line to Southminster, the nearest station to Uxley. The line ran across the lower part of the Hundred of Dengie, which turned out to indeed be the back of beyond and then some. It was a wild area that was a little reminiscent of our recent trip to Romney Marsh but drier and somewhat more cultivated. Alighting at the terminus we hired a carriage which took us through Asheldham, Dengie itself, Tillingham and Bradwell-on-Sea (which, rather curiously, was not on the sea), all charming little villages each with their own church, before turning east and heading towards the North Sea coast. 

Some little way along something that called itself Chapel Road but would have struggled to merit the term 'track', an even poorer ‘road’ led half a mile across the fields to some five or six houses which according to a slightly drunken finger-post comprised the metropolis of Uxley, near which the ex-president had met his doom and where my greatest 'fan' lived. Before departing London, Sherlock had arranged rooms for us at the King's Head in Bradwell and I had wired ahead to Mrs. Wing to let her know that we would be in the area. I had not of course received or expected a reply from such a remote area so I hoped that our unexpected arrival would be welcome. 

It was. Mrs. Wing was delighted to see us both and her husband Jonathan was equally welcoming. Of course the lady (who enthused over the latest book that I had brought and that we had both signed for her) was very willing to tell us what she knew of the death of the ex-president.

“The newspapers are calling it an Act of God!” she snorted disdainfully, her American accent still notable despite over two decades in England. “Bunkum! Unless God has suddenly taken to locking his own door!”

“Perhaps you might tell us the whole sequence of events”, Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up at the plate of meringues that she had brought out. There was even a freshly-brewed pot of coffee. She knew him well.

_(There was more than a hint of a simper on her face as she looked at Sherlock when we were sitting down but I chose to overlook that. Besides the look on her face when she looked at me suggested that somehow – and Lord alone knows how – she knew what I was wearing beneath my trousers. I wondered if it was indeed possible to die of embarrassment!)._

“We had a meeting of the Society on that day, the twenty-fourth”, she reminisced. “We are normally five in number but Jack and Mary Benbow are away on holiday so it was just myself, the Reverend Carter and Rod.”

“The ex-president?” I asked, confused.

“Good Lord no, his manservant”, she smiled. “The idea of that thug knowing how to operate a book..... never! His man is Mr. Rodrigo Vincenzo Alejandro Felipe San Carlos de Aranjuez, which is why we call him Rod. Looks like he got left behind by the Spanish Armada but a good fellow; he's seeing a village girl Ellis Highnam. The vicar's niece.”

“We finished at just before eight and the vicar left to walk back to the vicarage; I remember the clock striking the hour just after he had gone. Rod had told us that he and his master had walked down the village earlier and that he would be calling for him on his way back. He appeared about ten minutes later and the two left for their place which is close to the old chapel at. It was still light at the time, although getting dark.”

I nodded. The 'old chapel' was indeed that, one of the oldest Christian churches in England founded by St. Chad back in the seventh century amid the ruins of an old Roman fortress as he strove to turn the East Saxons from their pagan ways. Successfully, albeit after a long struggle.

“Did the ex-president come here?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“He met Rod down at the turning”, she said. “Just as well; I know that one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead but I could not stand the man! Fortunately we are as you can see on a slight rise so we could see his approach from the village as it was still light. I dread to think how he would have reacted had he had to actually _wait_ for Rod!”

 _The ex-president sounded a veritable loss to humanity_ , I thought wryly. Sherlock shot me a warning look.

“Rod told me later that his master had wanted to go to the chapel to pray for a while”, Mrs. Wing continued, frowning at that. “I thought that very odd; I had not thought that the fellow was the least bit religious but I suppose one never can tell. Rod did try to dissuade him – it had been a devilishly hot day and the clouds threatened heavy rain – but the fellow insisted. Just after they parted company at the crossroads the storm struck. Rod ran to the house and his master must have decided to make for the chapel as he would have been safe in there. But for some reason the place was locked and he was trapped outside.

I winced, as I knew what that meant. The Hundred was, like Romney Marsh, predominantly flat and with little cover except for its buildings. Anyone caught outside in the hailstorm that had hit this area – our driver had pointed out what it had done to an old abandoned barn – might as well have stood in front of a firing-squad. 

“Who had a key to the chapel?” Sherlock asked.

“The vicar has one and the light-house keeper the other”, she said. On seeing our confused faces she explained. “The lighthouse stands not far from the chapel and the keeper keeps an eye on the place. Alaric Peters his name is but I do not see why he would have locked it. It is a holy place after all.”

“What about the distances?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully. “How far is it from the crossroads to all three buildings?”

Our hostess thought for a moment. 

“Mr. Murillo's house is about fifty yards to the north”, she said. “Perhaps a bit more. The light-house lies about four hundred yards east, or maybe east by north-east. And I think that the chapel is about two hundred yards to the south. The crossroads is just under a mile east of here, give or take.”

I drew that information as a diagram.

“Was Mr. de Aranjuez treated for any injuries arising from his exposure to the hailstorm?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, she said. “Doctor Fuller said that he had some quite bad ones.”

“Oh.”

We both looked at him expectantly.

“Oh what?” I asked.

“Well it seems quite obvious”, he said. 

“Was it murder?” Mrs. Wing asked, clearly as confused as I was.

“Not by the strict legal definition of that word”, Sherlock said cagily. “Murder requires malice aforethought, in other words deliberate planning. While I do not doubt that the gentleman most responsible for the ex-president's death may have eventually resorted to murder, he instead took an opportunity presented to him by an Act of God and turned it very cleverly to his own ends. I think that we should pay a call on the vicar just to clarify my theory. and visit the chapel of course, then all will be done.”

We both stared at him.

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The Reverend John Carter was a tall patrician of a fellow, who looked more a bishop that a quiet country priest. He looked at us both somewhat dubiously; I could understand it in Sherlock's case; we had walked the mile or so back from Uxley and his hair was even more of a wreck than usual. I blushed when thinking of someone's choice of my underwear for meeting with a cleric and wished fervently that someone would tone down that smirk a notch or ten.

“I do hope that the great detective does not suspect a man of the cloth”, the vicar said warily.

“I have had clerical killers before”, Sherlock said lightly. “Indeed one of my first cases back in 'Seventy-Seven involved a priest who killed someone and ironically an Act of God was involved there too; the similarities are striking. No vicar, I just wish for some answers to one or to questions that I have. When you and Mr. de Aranjuez visited Mrs. Wing's house, were you both on time?”

The vicar looked at him suspiciously, but answered.

“Rod was a little late”, he said. “I think his master wanted to go for a walk and of course he took him along. I remember him – Rod – saying that he feared he might miss the Society meeting but that his master had said that he was seeing someone in the village and would collect him on the way back when the meeting was over. I left before them both, but I saw Mr. Murillo starting towards Uxley just as I turned off for the vicarage.”

“Do you happen to know who the ex-president was seeing?” Sherlock asked. The vicar shook his head.

“No”, he said. “All I do know, because I asked, is that he did not visit the inn. I was just grateful that he let Rod attend the club; I would not have put it past the man to stop him through sheer spite.”

“Mr. de Aranjuez seems amazingly well-read for a recent arrival to our shores”, Sherlock said with a smile.

“He may look like a pirate king but he is in fact a most gentle man”, the vicar said, a little defensively I thought. “He has a particular preference for Shakespeare but we diverge over Dickens, of whom he is not overly fond.”

_(I could sympathize with the incomer there. I found the great man heavy going at times, although 'A Christmas Carol' was one of my favourite books. Sherlock had brought me a quality hardback edition the Christmas before last, which I treasured)._

“I would also welcome your opinion of the late Mr. Murillo, sir”, Sherlock said. 

The vicar's face darkened.

“As a man of the cloth I am always inclined towards charity as regards my fellow humans”, he said heavily. “But that man did not have a single redeeming facet to his character! I have read of the depredations that he inflicted on his distant countrymen during his short and disgraceful rule and I know that he often treated poor Rod badly, especially after the fellow took up with my niece. If God himself had not removed him I am sure that one of his former countrymen would have hunted him down and finished him off. The world would have been what it now is, a better place without him!”

I could actually envisage this man of the cloth locking the chapel door and cackling maniacally as the hail beat a man to death outside. And he did have a key to the place. I shuddered.

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I had thought that when we walked back east out of the village we would be either returning to Mrs. Wing's house or going to see the mysterious Rodrigo. Instead Sherlock continued on past Uxley and called briefly in at the light-house before returning to the crossroads then walking down to the tiny chapel. It was a lovely, simple building and it seemed incredible that it had stood here, symbolizing an outpost of Christianity for over twelve centuries. Of the Roman fort over which it had been raised and which was but a few centuries older there was not a trace. Such was the enduring power of Christianity.

The chapel was not empty. A slender young blonde lady was kneeling down and praying while a swarthy fellow with dark hair stood silently beside her. Sherlock did not advance to disturb them and stepped outside to wait for them both. Presumably these were the mysterious Rodrigo and his lady-friend Miss Ellis Highnam.

The two came out of the chapel and I thought instinctively that they were an odd match, the muscular swarthy foreigner who was actually not that much older than his companion, and the tiny English lady. Then again perhaps Sherlock and I were an odd match ourselves.....

My friend broke into my thoughts.

“Good afternoon”, he said softly, “I am here about the killing that you were involved with of late.”

Rodrigo took an angry step towards him only for the girl to place a restraining hand on his huge shoulder. He froze at once and looked uncertainly at her.

“It's all right, Roddy”, she said quietly. “Let them speak.”

“It was ironic, was it not?” Sherlock said quietly. “When one looks at all the hundreds if not thousands of people that Mr. Murillo killed, many in person, and all the crimes that he committed while president of his nation. Yet what finally did for him was a combination of some unwise words and an Act of God.”

“Go on”, Miss Highnam said. I noted that she kept her hand on her fellow, holding him in place. 

“You lied about the circumstances of your journey that night, sir”, Sherlock said. “Your master collected you from Mrs. Wing's house, that we know from the evidence of others, but your trip home was far from uneventful. Words were exchanged in which Mr. Murillo accused you either of treachery or of seeing an English girl and establishing ties here when he himself planned to return to San Quentin one day. Certain it is that tempers were high by the time you reached the crossroads yonder.”

“He did both!” Rodrigo growled. I silently wished that I had brought my gun and not left it in my bag back at the King's Head.

“It was therefore singularly unfortunate that Miss Highnam, having seen your employer in the village, had walked to the house in the hope of seeing you”, Sherlock went on, “and of course had missed you as she had forgotten that you would be at your book club. When she met you both at the crossroads by his cottage Mr. Murillo said something that you could not forgive. I do not doubt that the time was fast approaching when you would have felt compelled to betray your master even if it were something as passive as informing his many enemies as to his location. But as matters transpired you did not need to.”

“You did not as you later told Mrs. Wing quit your master at the crossroads so that he could go to the chapel. When he said those disrespectful things about the girl that you loved, you hit him and knocked him unconscious. I do not doubt that you considered taking him into the house to recover, but at that precise moment the great hailstorm broke.”

“It quickly became clear that this was no normal storm and that anyone out in it ran the risk of severe injury if not death. The two of you decided that as the Good Lord had forced your hand you would use the opportunity for your own ends. You, sir, ordered Miss Highnam to take cover in the house while you hoisted the body of your master and carried it to lie against the door of the chapel. You then took shelter inside until the storm had abated while the hail beat your unconscious master to death.”

The two stared at him in silence. I thought wryly back to that newspaper article I had read, stating that while in power the dead man had reputedly enjoyed watching his victims die in front of a firing-squad. Karma sometimes got things very right.

“I was puzzled by two things arising from Mrs. Wing's most excellent testimony concerning this matter”, Sherlock said. “First, if matters really had transpired as you had claimed, sir, then you would have had to have run a distance of barely fifty yards to reach shelter, yet you subsequently needed treatment for extensive injuries. Second, if he truly had faced a locked door at the chapel Mr. Murillo could easily have run the still relatively short distance back to his house albeit sustaining some injuries of his own along the way. Unless of course, he was in no fit state to run anywhere.”

“The rest is easy. The deluge passes and Miss Highnam waits until darkness to return to the village, while you use the same darkness to retrieve the key kept by the light-house owner – it hangs on a nail in an unlocked porch; I saw it earlier – and lock the door to the chapel before returning it. The superstitious will say that God saw such an unholy man approaching his house and took measures to keep him out.”

“He was evil!” Miss Highnam almost spat out. “The world is a better place without him. And we didn't kill him.”

“Not directly”, Sherlock admitted. “Also there is something else, something even more important. The real reason that my cousin Luke asked me to come and investigate this matter, even though our unpleasant relation Randall did not tell him that. Mr. de Aranjuez, _what did you do with the papers?_ ”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Despite what his ego doubtless told him every day of his wretched existence, the ex-president was little real danger”, Sherlock said. “His few supporters could not have mustered anything like the force needed for him to regain power, not without significant foreign help which, given the political situation in the area, would not have been forthcoming. But a position of power brings access to all sorts of interesting documents, and when he fled into exile I am sure that your master took the precaution of taking those papers with him in the knowledge that many, in his own nation and abroad, would pay well to ensure that they never saw the light of day. Sir, I _know_ governments and their ilk far better than you, and I can assure you that the most savage tribes in the deepest depths of your homeland's jungle have nothing on what politicians are capable of in this so-called civilized world.”

I wondered if the fellow was going to try to bluff things out but he folded almost at once. He gestured over to where a scorched rubbish-bin had clearly seen better days.

“I burned them all in there, sir”, he said. “You are right. He had had letters offering to buy them and when he was gone I feared for us both.... I thought it for the best.”

“I think that you were most wise”, I said. “This is difficult and regretfully the doctor here will not be able to publish this case for many a year. I am not superstitious but I am inclined to view that hailstorm as the means of death of what as you say madam was an evil man. But”, and he wagged an admonitory finger at them both, “be sure that neither of you ever comes to my attention again!”

“We shall not!” Rodrigo said fervently wrapping a huge arm around his lady. And whatever anyone later said I did not move behind my friend at that moment.

_How could I see a smirk from behind?_

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Despite the late hour we called in on Mr. and Mrs. Wing on our way back and Sherlock explained the case to them, enjoining them to keep it secret. We made our way back to the peace and quiet of the King's Head and enjoyed a restful night before our return the following day.

At least it would have been restful if Sherlock had not insisted on making full play of me taking off the panties. And the bastard had even brought me another pair for me to wear home, too! We took a later train home the following day and he teased me the whole way back to Baker Street, where I made my displeasure manifestly clear.

Very manifestly. Three times!

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Postscriptum: Just over two years later a card arrived at Baker Street informing us of the births of twins Rodney and Elizabeth St. Charles, son and daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Roderick St. Charles of Bradwell-on-Sea in the Hundred of Dengie, Essex. By then the government in San Quentin had been overthrown. Twice.

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	16. Interlude: The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1897\. Eavesdroppers seldom hear anything good of themselves.

_[Narration by Mrs. Melody Wing]_

Pete and Tom, two of John's drinking friends, had called round. I wondered at that; they very rarely came all this way out as they both lived in the village, next door but one to the pub in Tom's case. So I left them and went up to our bedroom which, by a fortunate coincidence, was directly above the room they were all in.

Sound travelling upwards had its advantages at times. 

“Well?” I heard Pete say. 

There was what sounded like paper being unfolded. What was going on?

“Seventeen seconds”, John said. “I went for twenty-one.”

“Damn, I said twenty-five!” Pete said.

“Hah, I win!” Tom said. “I went for sixteen! Pay up, losers!”

What _were_ they talking about? 

“I can't believe she simpered at the poor fellow so damn quick!” John grumbled as I heard the chink of coins being passed over. “I mean, I know the doctor said that all women do that in his books, but with me right there next to her?”

I was shocked. So that was why that damn husband of mine had been glancing at his watch that time. I had not simpered at Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I was sure!

Fairly sure.

“Are you sure?” Pete asked.

“They were not even sat down”, John sighed. “Thank the Lord he's safely back in London and us Essex men can rest easy!”

They had been betting on me simpering at another man? That was.... that was absolutely shocking! 

An annoying voice at the back of my mind reminded me that they had also been absolutely right, but I ignored it. Men these days!

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End file.
